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You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
I sat in Rickon’s chamber, the fire burned low, throwing long shadows on the walls. He was curled in his bed, eyes heavy but restless, while I read aloud from an old book of tales — heroes, wolves, and kings long dead. My voice softened as I turned the page, but before I could continue, Rickon’s small voice broke the quiet.
“Is Robb really going to war?”
I looked at him. “He’s going to free your father.”
Rickon frowned. “Your brother put my father in a cell?”
“It’s difficult, Rickon,” I said gently. “And I’m not responsible for my brother’s actions. But I promise you this — Robb will bring your father and your sisters home.”
Rickon’s voice wavered. “I miss them all. And now Robb is leaving Winterfell too. Are you going with him?”
I smoothed the blanket up to his chin and tried a smile. “I’m his wife now. I go where he goes.”
“So you’re leaving us too?” he whispered.
“We’re not leaving you, not for long,” I assured him. “You’ll still have Bran. And your mother will soon return from the Vale. Everything will be fine.”
I set the book aside, brushed his hair from his eyes, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Sleep now, Rickon. Don’t trouble yourself with such thoughts.”
When Rickon finally drifted into sleep, small fists curled tight in the blanket, I lingered at his bedside a moment longer. The chamber was quiet save for his soft breaths and the faint crackle of the fire. Only when I was certain he dreamed did I rise, draw my cloak about me, and slip into the corridor.
The Great Hall was alive with noise and color. Banners hung heavy from the stone walls — the direwolf of Stark, the sunburst of Karstark, the roaring giant of Umber, the flayed man of Bolton. Others I did not know by name, but their sigils were clear enough: the mailed fist of Glover, the silver merman of Manderly. Their colors wavered in the torchlight, reminders of the weight gathering here.
The high seat was Robb’s now. He sat straight-backed upon it, youth buried under the lines duty had carved into him. Beside him, the chair for his lady stood empty, though I felt its pull as keenly as if it called my name. Bran sat stiff and quiet to his right, too young for such company, too proud to be sent away. Maester Luwin stood close by, chain glinting as he bent his head to hear.
The lords of the North filled the benches below, their voices rumbling like thunder. Great-shouldered Lord Umber slapped his palm on the table, words rolling like growls. Across from him, pale-eyed Roose Bolton sat in silence, still as a snake, though his gaze missed nothing. Karstark leaned forward, beard bristling as he argued, while lesser bannermen shouted to be heard, their voices tangling like a storm.
Some of the men noticed me as I stepped further inside. A few nodded with stiff courtesy; some dipped their heads and murmured, “my lady.” Most only stared, cold and unreadable.
I knew what they saw: not the girl who had lived among them these months, not the wife who had shared Robb’s hall, but a southern princess. A girl whose brother had thrown their liege lord in chains, whose mother now urged loyalty to a boy crowned on a lie. A softness among steel.
Still, I did not sit apart. My place was beside Robb, and when he glanced at me, it was steady, deliberate — a quiet reminder to all who watched that I belonged there, whether they liked it or not.
The arguments grew louder by the minute, voices clashing like steel. Trenchers scraped, cups sloshed, lords bellowed over one another until Robb’s voice cut through, sharp and commanding.
“Galbart Glover will lead the van.”
The hall fell still.
Greatjon Umber surged to his feet, broad shoulders shaking with anger. “The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber marches behind a Glover. For thirty years I’ve made corpses of men, boy. I’ll lead the vanguard, or I’ll take my men and march them home.”
The words dropped like a gauntlet. Lords muttered, shifting. I looked to Robb, my breath caught in my chest.
He didn’t flinch.
“You are welcome to do so, Lord Umber,” Robb said, rising from his chair, voice clear as steel. “And when I am done with the Lannisters, I’ll march back north, root you out of your keep, and hang you for an oathbreaker.”
A murmur rippled through the hall. The Greatjon shoved back his chair so hard it clattered to the rushes. His hand went to the hilt of his sword.
“Oathbreaker, is it? I’ll not swallow insults from a boy so green he pisses grass—”
The words broke off in a roar.
Grey Wind leapt from the dais, a flash of teeth and muscle. The direwolf slammed into the Greatjon, knocking him back against the table. With a snap of jaws, Grey Wind seized his hand, and blood spattered bright across the rushes as two fingers went flying.
Shouts rose, steel hissed from scabbards — but Robb’s voice cut through again.
“My lord father taught me it is death to bare steel against your liege lord,” Robb said, calm as stone. His hand rested on Grey Wind’s ruff, steadying the wolf as he bared bloody teeth. “But doubtless the Greatjon only meant to cut my meat for me.”
For a heartbeat, silence. Then the Greatjon threw back his head and barked a booming laugh. “Your meat is bloody tough!”
Laughter rolled through the hall, rough and loud, breaking the tension at last. Even Bolton’s pale lips twitched.
But Robb did not laugh. He held Umber’s gaze, steady as the direwolf at his side. And in that moment, every man in the hall saw what I saw: not the boy they’d called green, but the lord they would follow.
When the hall finally emptied, we returned to our chambers. Robb unbuckled his belt, laying steel aside with slow, heavy hands. I sat before the mirror, loosening braids, drawing the comb through my hair.
“More of my men arrived today,” he said, voice quieter but still edged. “The Mormonts. The Glovers too. The army is nearly ready to march.”
I looked up, but he didn’t wait for my reply.
“You’re staying here.”
The comb stilled in my hand. Slowly, I turned. “What?”
“My mother is in the Vale. Rickon and Bran will remain here. I need someone I trust to look after them.”
Something hot rose in me. “They have their mother coming back. They have a household, guards, maester, bannermen. I didn’t marry your brothers, Robb. I married you. And now you mean to leave me behind like something fragile to be tucked away?”
His jaw set. “I’m leaving you here because I fear for your safety. War isn’t—”
“Isn’t what?” I cut in. “Isn’t a place for wives? For women? For me?”
His face tightened, but I pressed on. “The Mormonts ride for you, led by their lady. And yet your own wife isn’t fit to stand beside you?”
He closed the space between us in two strides, hands gripping my arms, voice low and strained. “Lyanna, listen. This isn’t worth—”
“No,” I snapped. “Say it plain. If it isn’t my sex, then it’s something else. Is it because of what they whisper about me? Because my brother wears a crown? Because my mother’s letters ask you to bend the knee? Tell me — which lord planted this in your ear?”
“Gods, Lyanna,” Robb muttered, his grip tightening. “Do you think this is easy for me? Every part of me wants you beside me. But I can’t take you into war.”
I tore free of his hands. “You make it sound as though I’m a burden. A weight to drag behind you.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you mean,” I shot back. The comb clattered to the floor. “You’d rather keep me cloistered here so the lords won’t whisper, so no one questions why the boy lord brought a southern wife while his father rots in a cell.”
His voice hardened. “Enough.”
“No,” I spat. “Am I your wife only when it pleases you? When you want laughter by the fire? But when war comes, when your life is at stake, I’m cast aside like some ornament too fine to weather the storm?”
His words came rough, low. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“And I’m trying to stop you turning me into a ghost in your shadow,” I flung back, my chest heaving. “If you march without me, what am I left with? A hall full of eyes that see a Lannister kin, and a husband who doesn’t trust me at his side.”
“Better suspicion than a grave,” Robb growled.
I stared at him, voice raw. “So that’s it? You’d rather I live with whispers than die with you?”
His shoulders sagged, the fight slipping from him. He dragged a hand through his hair, his voice breaking softer. “If you’re with me, I’ll think of you every time swords are drawn. I need my head clear. Do you understand?”
I stepped closer, my own voice trembling. “And if you leave me here, I’ll sit in these walls tearing myself apart. I’d sooner share your danger than be left behind safe and powerless. I don’t want to be left wondering, Robb. Not every night. Not every hour. If I stay here, I’ll go mad with questions. I need to be with you — even if it means waiting in your tent, even if it means fear. At least then I’ll see you breathe. At least then I’ll know.”
For a moment we only stared, both of us shaking. For a long breath he only looked at me, and all the command, all the lordship, seemed to slip from him. He was only Robb then, the boy I had stolen apples with by the fire.
“You’ll be the death of me,” he muttered, the words breaking more than biting.
I closed the space between us, brushing my nose lightly against his, breath mingling in that fragile span. “Don’t joke like that,” I whispered, voice unsteady. “It’s not funny anymore.”
For a heartbeat he didn’t answer, only pressed his forehead to mine, as though the weight of war itself might ease in that closeness. His hands slid at last to my shoulders, anchoring me.
Then, softer than I had ever heard him, he said: “Then stay by me. Whatever comes. I’ll not leave you behind.”
The ache in my chest loosened. My fingers gripped the linen at his shoulders, holding on as though I could bind the vow into him. My lips found his, and the kiss carried no anger now, no pride — only apology, only need. A promise.
We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing each other in. His hand cupped my cheek, rough palm warm against my skin. My voice slipped out before I could stop it, quiet and certain. “I love you.”
His thumb brushed my jaw, his eyes steady on mine. “And I you,” he murmured, the words rough but true.
He drew me against him then, close enough that I felt his heartbeat steadying beneath my palm. The chamber seemed smaller, the fire softer and the world outside our walls farther away.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
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You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
So don’t worry
I’ll make you worry like no other girl can
So don’t worry
Damn sure I’ll never let you know where you stand
Silent treatment and humbling your ass
Well, that's some of my best work
Thought sleeping with you might help me decide
But, it was annoyingly good, so thanks for making it worse
-Sabrina Carpenter “Don’t Worry I’ll Make You Worry”
Your eyelids felt so heavy. Your whole body did, really. It felt like you’d been asleep for 100 years and yet you just wanted five more minutes. Your eyes opened to an unfamiliar environment, inside a cold cabin, in a bed that wasn’t your own, wearing clothes that smelled familiar but not like yourself. You moved to sit up, but a searing pain shot through your arm, causing you to yell out as you fell back down into the soft covers.
You watched the bedroom door slowly creep open, who could’ve injured you like this and brought you here? You stared wide-eyed at the door, preparing for the worst, and that's just what you got. Bucky. Fucking. Barnes. He walked sheepishly into the room, avoiding eye-contact. “Hey, Y/N,” he muttered quietly. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel like shit,” You replied. “I feel like I got shot or something,” You said chuckling. Bucky did not laugh. He turned his gaze to the floor. “Barnes, did I get fucking shot?” You pushed yourself up with your left arm, and he immediately rushed over to prop pillows up behind your back. You looked over at your other arm, hanging limp by your side, steadily aching. You pulled down the sleeve of the unfamiliar sweater, exposing the top of your chest.
“Barnes,” You said, still looking at the edge of the sweater, “Why am I not wearing a bra?” He stepped back from you, if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was nervous. “Well,” He began, “The blood kind of soaked everything. I tried to wash it in the tub. It’s stained but it’s clean.”
“Okay,” You said, pulling the sweater down more to expose the bandages, “Whose clothes am I wearing right now?” You felt the edges of the tight bandages. He’d cleaned it up pretty good. The gauze wasn’t soaked through with blood, he’d clearly been changing it regularly. “You never pack enough clothes for these missions,” He responded. “You never think there’s a possibility we’d get stuck here.”
“Am I wearing your clothes?” You pulled back the covers to reveal the gray sweatpants he always wore during training. You look more closely at the sweater, realizing it was one he always wore around the tower. A simple black knit sweater, it was unbelievably tight on him but practically a dress on you. He just nodded. “Do I want to know what I’m wearing under the pants?” He let out a sigh. “I didn’t want to dig that far into your stuff and invade your privacy like that.”
“So, instead of looking through my stuff, or just not changing my clothes for like, what, a day? You put me in your own underwear? That felt like the least invasive option to you?” You got as close to a yell as you could with how weak and tired you were. “You haven’t been out for just a day, Y/N.” He sat on the end of the bed. “What do you mean?” Your voice is softer now. “You’ve been out for three days. I’ve been taking care of you for five straight days. You’ve woken up about six times for a few minutes at a time, that’s when I’ve been able to feed you, but you haven’t actually been conscious until now.” You studied the side of his face. “Y/N, I thought you were going to die out here.” The dark circles that permanently rested under his eyes were darker than you’d ever seen. Those steel blue eyes, which were normally so reserved and strong, were blood-shot and red rimmed. His hair was greasy and unbrushed, hanging in tangles around his face. His stubble had grown quickly, he looked so much more rugged. And so much more sad. Guilt started tugging at you, pulling you towards him, If you could move you might be inclined to hug him. To touch him for the first time in a situation that wasn’t life or death.
“I’m sorry,” You whispered. He turned his face towards the door. “James, I’m so sorry I got us in this situation.” He continued to look at the door. “I should get you something to eat,” He said, standing up. Before you could respond he was out of the room, the old wooden door creaking shut behind him. You took in the small room. One dresser with the top drawer open, showing the clothes Bucky had haphazardly jammed into it. To your right, an open door revealing a small bathroom. The clothes you’d been wearing on the mission were folded on the counter. The white shower curtain was stained with blood. To your left, a small chair was pulled up next to the bed, a pillow rested on the seat of it, a throw blanket draped over it. Had he been sleeping there?
The door began to open again, he stood in the doorway with a tray of food. You let out a small chuckle. “What’s so funny?” He asked accusingly. “You take up the whole doorway,” You answered. “This place is just so tiny.” His face remained neutral, staring at you with unblinking eyes. He stepped through the doorway, having to turn slightly to the side to fit his broad shoulders. You snorted quietly. Bucky rolled his eyes, as he walked over to you, placing the tray on your lap. You thanked him softly. He watched you eat, and it was hard to read the expression on his face. There was something close to disbelief in his eyes. Was it because you didn’t die? Because you got shot? Because you were finally awake? Because you were stupid enough to get injured like that? You ran through everything that happened, absentmindedly stirring the soup he’d made. It was surprisingly good. Who knew Bucky could cook? It’s an unusual skill for a man from his time.
When you finished he took the tray and placed it on top of the dresser. “You should probably start moving around. You’ve been laying down for too long.” He reached out to grab your hand. You pulled back the covers, taking his hand. He helped you swing your legs to the side, your feet resting on the floor. You pulled you up, but your knees gave out. You collapsed into his arms, your left shoulder bumping into his ribs. A jolt of pain shot through you. You clenched your jaw, leaning further into him. His left hand rested on the small of your back, he kept his left hand up, seemingly scared to touch any part of the left side of your body. You rested your forehead and right hand on his chest, trying to will your legs to support themselves. He was right, you’d been stationary for way too long. Every part of your body seemed to forget how to function.
You stayed like that for a few minutes, until your legs came back to life. You started to push yourself off his chest, he kept his hands hovering near your body, jolting every time your balance wavered. You slowly turned to face the door. He moved his left hand to wrap around your waist, his right hand in front of you in case you fell forward. He slowly guided you out of the bedroom, into the rest of the safehouse. It was all one room, a small loveseat in front of an old rabbit-ear TV on the mantle of a large brick fireplace, a small kitchen with a wood burning stove, and a dining table that could seat two. It was illuminated by the sunlight streaming in through the few small windows, and a couple of floor lamps that glowed yellow. Most areas of the wooden floor were covered by old worn down area rugs. The only word to describe it was cozy.
Bucky let you go, now fully able to stand on your own. You shuffled over to the nearest window. The landscape was covered in snow, and dotted with pine trees. You didn’t expect to see anything different, it was exactly what Russia always looked like. There wasn’t a single other house in sight. The snow was piled so high, it pressed against the bottom of the glass. The reflective surface made the world unnaturally bright, reflecting every beam of light that hit it. You noticed a small path Bucky had trudged, leading to a stump with an axe. You turned to look at Bucky, who stood a few feet away, clearly still worried you’d keel over. “When’s the Quinjet getting here?” You asked, “This place is hardly paradise, and you did a great job patching me up but it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea for Bruce to look at this.”
His eyes got ever so slightly wider, it was almost imperceptible. “No, Barnes,” You began, “If you tell me we’re stuck here so help me God-” He cut you off and pointed to the dining table. “The comms are down right now but I’m figuring it out,” He replied, and you turned to see a mangled ball of wires on the table. “I think I’ve almost got it, just give me a few more days.”
“Barnes, I’m the tech person!” You hobbled over to the table on still-weak legs. “You better pray you didn’t make these things even more unusable!” He rushed over, pulling out the dining chair closer to you. You sat down, studying the mangled computer and ear pieces. “You stick to cooking and chopping wood, I’ll deal with this shit from now on. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
It’s almost embarrassing how fast even the most secure organizations may fall into disarray whenever key players are removed. The Emperor stands over the round table, a frown on his face as he pores over loose papers that all paint a picture: one that shows all the connections severed by Gortash during his absence and Stelmane’s untimely death. Still, he has nothing but an abundance of time and opportunity as the Gate rebuilds itself post-Netherbrain, so the illithid sits down at the lone table and begins sorting the documents per priority.
Within those priorities, the main inroads that come to mind would be the weapons that come via the Chionthar, alongside the connections amongst other major players such as the Zhentarim and the Guild.
The first has been utterly consumed by Gortash’s eagerness to displace the Knights of the Shield in their own game, with the arms transport being replaced by black market explosives and parts necessary to supply the Steel Watch Foundry. But the second still holds plenty of promise.
Even though the Zhentarim couldn’t care less for the Cult of The Absolute and has freely traded where the money goes (despite how badly it might go in the long term), as proven by Pandora’s run-ins with them at Moonrise Towers and under Waukeen’s Rest, whatever shreds of them that remain once Nine-Fingers was done with them ought to cowed to neutrality. Still, tensions might be high once the Black Network is inevitably probed. Which then leaves the Guild. Nine-Fingers is, and always has been, protective–or controlling, depending on who’s asking–of the city, something that may have been cause for concern whenever he or Stelmane attempted to import things of note, but is now a boon as the rise and fall of the Cult of The Absolute has occupied most of her thoughts due to Minsc’s ransacking of Guild territory and the Counting House.
And so, the work begins.
The first matter to consider, Pandora thinks as she floats in newly sprouted wings, is which place to call her own.
Supplanting her patron may have given the newborn archfey a new variety of toys and powers to play with—all sun-gold magic that feels alive with whimsy, but that doesn’t change the fact that for the majority of Pandora’s career as a warlock, she’s mainly been traveling to collect favors. There’s the Feywild at large, Pandora supposes, as the realm changes in tune with its inhabitants and a newly established force ought to influence the lands. But it won’t change the fact that it won’t be her own by default—she’ll need to carve it out of the wilds herself, and that’s a different sack of jabberwocks to deal with.
Still, that's no mentality to go with right after leaving the bonds of mortality! The fae gently lands on the riverbank sands of the Chionthar, paper-thin wings folding behind her back as she thinks. Whatever home she makes for herself, it’ll need to be in close enough proximity to civilization to invite visitors, guests that may come and go with stories and experiences to be read like a book, but also provide enough of a connection to the Feywild itself for her to participate in traditions; shunning her fellow fairies would simply be rude, of course.
Hmm. Maybe some advice would be in order, at least for this problem. Her old pack should still be within the Elfsong, as the upper parlor is still being rented under her pseudonym, and would surely contain some items that other fey would like to sample in exchange for a giving word or inspiration.
Pandora nods at herself as she spins on her heel towards the Gate, casts a minor illusion to conceal her wings, and begins to walk.
Throughout the four or five months it took to reach Baldur’s Gate and destroy the Netherbrain, the Emperor has become both acquainted and accustomed to the various signatures of the psionic links each tadpoled adventurer emitted. Some, like Wyll and Karlach, felt comfortably warm, if not headstrong when sufficiently driven; others, like Astarion or even Lae’zel were laced with the beat of survival, uncertainty that harkens bravery in its stead. Pandora’s signature could have been described as cloying, and oddly shaped despite having seen (and slept) with the tiefling previously.
The mind that blips into his awareness, far above the Elfsong’s basement, feels familiar. And amplified far more than what he remembers.
The Emperor considers the information for a moment, before deciding to see whoever it is now within Stelmane’s parlor in the upper floors. He opens the wardrobe at the far side of the room, and chooses the disguise of some errand boy—with the amount of citizens either trying to talk or request something from the hero of Baldur’s Gate, wearing the form of an urchin shouldn’t turn too many heads.
Nodding towards the various staff in a hurried manner, the illithid makes his way up the kitchen, past all manner of drunks and bubbly heads, and onto the parlor doors. There, what he recognizes as the once-tiefling’s mind has turned expansive, gossamer-enclosed thoughts now wrapped in glittering silk.
The actual sight of the former adventurer is a lot less elegant, however. As the Emperor slides open the doors with thin hands, he is greeted by Pandora head-first in a trunk, with various noises clamoring about as she sorts through months worth of belongings. As various clothing items and armor pieces fly about, the Emperor walks over to the side, and taps the lid of the chest to grab Pandora’s attention.
A pair of blue and gold horns poke upwards, followed by a pair of yellow eyes, and the Emperor realizes why her brain’s signature has changed. It seems like the warlock did win her patron’s game after all.
“Oh, hello! Apologies for not greeting you sooner, I’m currently looking for something.” Cheery as ever, the fae dives back down into the trunk, seemingly not even picking up on the Emperor’s disguise.
To that, the illithid decides to shed some of it.
「You’ve changed. It’s not the evolution I would have liked, but I suppose it was your natural conclusion.」
With that statement, Pandora finally stills in the middle of rummaging, and gives her full attention to him. “It’s you. You’ve gotten better at your disguises, at least,” Reaching back down into the trunk, she finally manages to bring out the pack. “I suppose you’re not here to lecture me about evolving again?”
「No, I don’t think I would be.」
Hesitance catches in the illithid’s throat for a split second.
「With your… changes, I don’t think a tadpole would find your head hospitable anymore.」
Pandora waves her hand airily at that statement. “My kind nowadays would love to be good hosts, but I’m sure that mind flayer tadpoles aren’t good guests, so no.”
「Very well. You were looking for something?」
The Emperor turns his head as he brings the strewn about items within range, lining them up neatly beside him.
“Yes, actually! As with any adventurer, I have been cursed to put my hands on everything. But now, I am looking for whether that ‘everything’ makes appropriate gifts.”
As Pandora unclasps the bag, she begins pulling out item after item after item. An entire bookshelves’ worth of spell scrolls comes out first, each fetching higher prices than the last, although the fae seems to not care about them anymore. Then, full purses of gold begin spilling out, and the Emperor mentally catalogues how much of said gold was probably taken one way or another from the Counting House. Still, that does not satisfy the fae, and she continues the search. Turning the bag over upside-down, the full extent of loot quickly makes itself known; silver cutlery, paintings off the wall, books of various topics, an empty alchemical pouch, and even five buckets come falling onto the carpeted floor. In front of the mess, Pandora squints at the items.
The Emperor, in an attempt to be helpful, spreads out the pile into categories.
「Is there anything in particular that you are looking for?」
That inquiry seems to snap Pandora out of borderline glaring at the items, and her tail raises straight up as she answers the question. “Well for one, gifts between the fey need to hold some kind of significance from the giver. The scrolls are worth quite some gold,” She places her hand on her chin in thought, “But if anyone is rich enough, they are able to just purchase one from Sorcerous Sundries. Same goes with most other things here…”
As the fae begins scanning the items with further vigor, a circular shine catches her eye. Brushing a few other jewelry pieces aside, Pandora picks up the once-Sentient Amulet, and grins widely. “This one! This one is perfect!”
The Emperor evidently does not see this perfection.
「A cursed item might be interesting, but you have resolved the monk’s wishes already.」
The statement seems to touch something within the archfey’s mind, as the Emperor feels a sharp stab of both faux and real offense to the statement. “What, no! I wouldn’t dare offer this to another if it were still cursed, that’s simply rude!”
The illithid lets a tentacle brush over the amulet, expectant for further explanation.
“This necklace is perfect because it tells a story. Sure it may… lack some catharsis, but the idea of a mad spirit asking a mortal to deliver himself to a descendant? It’s a fascinating premise!” Pandora’s yellow eyes flash gold at this, her grin near manic with excitement.
「Yes, I suppose it makes a tall tale.」
The Emperor nods, a faint remembrance of the tales Balduran’s crew would spin over hardtack dinner to pass the night making itself known.
The fae returns her attention back to the pile of items and begins sorting through them more meticulously, paying more attention to the trinkets given to her whenever she concluded a request. “I ought to get more of these kinds of items though, ideas amongst those like me might be pricey, especially since I am looking for a place to settle in.”
Settling down, huh? The Emperor can’t exactly begrudge Pandora for that sentiment, considering he’s holed himself up in the same location where both Gortash and githyanki have trodden on before.
「You have hoarded an impressive amount of items on your way to the Gate, I’m sure you’ll find more.」
Encouragement received, Pandora waves once more to the illithid, ending the conversation as she dives into the mess. On the other hand, the Emperor redoes his disguise before going down the stairs, although he forgoes the change of mannerisms this time, opting to glide down to his basement.
By the dawn of the next day, Pandora eats a hearty breakfast at the Elfsong and begins her trek out of the lower city. While the fae isn’t carrying her old pack anymore, as she left it and the majority of her collectibles within the camp chest, there’s a leather pouch tied to her wrist, clinking with various rewards that she deemed to be good enough for gifts. Around her neck, the dormant Sentient Amulet sits, still warm with the remnants of Lathander’s embrace, a walking advertisement for fairies as to what’s in the pouch.
She really has Mayrina and her anti-hag support group to thank for that, Pandora thinks. Especially since the fey charms that Ethel dropped all seem to be handcrafted—its properties weren’t too useful during her time as a warlock, but the jewelry has become a boon in these trying times. Maybe she ought to give Mayrina’s upcoming child a blessing once they’re born. Last she’s heard of the young mother, Mayrina was considering naming the child after Pandora. If that was the case, then, the kid’s going to be named after her pseudonym, rather than her actual name, but it’s still earnest flattery and it’s only polite to repay the favor. One thing at a time though; Pandora has all the time in the world and the baby has another three or so months until they’re done cooking in the womb.
By the time Pandora has left Rivington, the sun is halfway to its peak and she’s vibrating with excitement; the minor illusion concealing her wings is starting to fizzle out and the clinking of the pouch slowly becomes the only distinct sound apart from the occasional bird chirp or crunch of leaves.
Deeming herself to be far enough from any stragglers or lost hunters, Pandora dispels the last of the illusion and lets her wings unfold and stretch. Bearing the color and consistency of parchment, the archfey’s wings crinkle open as she loosens up.
The forest glade around her is relatively clear, evidently, the trees were polite enough to let sunlight past their canopies, dappling the grass with a golden color. Inspecting the motes of sunlight, Pandora seeks out a fey crossing; it’d be easier to plane shift, but she’d rather not spook the residents if the spell heralds her arrival with ill-timed firework crackles or the like, owing to the location’s proximity to civilization. Shifting her stance a bit, Pandora looks over at the sunlit grass… and… there! While leaning at a bit of a silly angle, a circle of sunlight reveals a door when properly placed into perspective. With the crossing revealed, the fae gives the glowing door a cursory knock, and invites herself in.
The scene Pandora finds herself in is… peaceful. Oddly isolating, considering the doorway’s distance to Rivington and Baldur’s Gate as a whole. And the weird hag infestation that the Lower City has.
While there are a multitude of different trees that dot the Sword Coast, the ones closest to the beach, or the ones that tend to form bed-like canopies tend to be on the stouter end of the spectrum. Here, the vegetation is reversed; instead of sturdy oaks or light birches, darkened pines reach for the sun, casting a shadow onto the ground below them. Taking in the surroundings, Pandora notes that the geography is roughly the same, although the weather could use some brightening up, especially when storms are easily brewed on the beach.
Floating with her wings, Pandora glides through the clusters of pine trees, and begins taking in stock of whatever signs of life there are. Ethel aside, there have been examples of other fey taking up residence either within or around the gate; the Baldur’s Mouth printing press comes to mind, although it mentioned leaving in the first place due to the wonders of technology, and there’s bound to be some ears and mouths to spread Dolly Dolly Dolly’s tale of capture and rescue in the Moonlantern. But as the imposing pine trees give away to a clearer patch of land, Pandora’s wings raise in alarm as she realizes something.
There’s… nobody here. That’s weird.
This newfound revelation changes things. Upon closer inspection, the pinecones that litter the ground are clammed shut, but the grooves imply residences that have been abandoned. The trees reach ever higher, yes, but they’re skinny with neglect. Pandora narrows her eyes, tail inadvertently forming the shape of a question mark as she snaps her fingers and planeshifts out and back in.
The sound that announces the archfey’s arrival defaults to the musical chime of the Weave. There is no clamor of civilization that accompanies the spell, no fellow fey to influence the sound that indicates either intruder or guest.
That’s concerning, but Pandora supposes that as the sole person within the area, she’d at least find out what caused this lack of life. Ao only knows the Gate can only take a major crisis once a century.
Us has elected to stay behind, despite its longing to reconnect with Pandora, and the intellect devourer has taken the task of becoming the best kitty ever with great stride. While the Emperor suspects that Us hasn’t quite gotten along with the Elfsong’s resident cats, the creature has practiced the mannerisms and routine of one down to an art form. Case in point, the intellect devourer is pawing at his feet as the Emperor slowly sits up from a bedroll.
「We come with news, gossip!」
Us announces with glee. The Emperor focuses his mind towards the bar patrons above him: most of them are ordering some form of fresh bread. Early morning news then, maybe some information about potential meetings later on the day.
The illithid sits up straight, and makes room for the intellect devourer to sprawl on his lap. As it does so, although not before inspecting said lap, Us continues,
「We noticed a red child this morning, she was trying to remain unnoticed, but we watched her.」
They try to solicit a chin scratch from the Emperor, then gives him their mind to look through.
Despite the decades upon decades the Emperor has spent as a mind flayer, he’s never had the company of an intellect devourer like Us. There was no shortage of the walking brains; a colony is usually filled to the brim with them for matters such as basic scouting, and the Emperor had a brief flock of them that he fashioned while in the Astral Prism. Us, however, is an odd one. Not aberrant—the Emperor wouldn’t admit that even within his mind, as the creature would most likely droop if it was made to further sink on that matter, but the loyalty it has was reforged, rather than fixed since its birth. Although, he does wonder sometimes, whether that reforging was put in motion due to unconscious meddling by Pandora, rather than the intellect devourer’s solo experiences aboard the Nautiloid or in Moonrise Towers.
The vision that Us gives the illithid is one that brings focus from familiarity. They’re high above on a ceiling beam, watching patrons slowly shuffle in while either sleepy or hungover. Then, a tiefling child walks in, her stride suggesting focus. Mol, the Emperor realizes, the name bringing to mind the memory of Pandora attempting to pore over the contract the child made with Raphael after killing the cambion.
Us’ viewpoint shifts as they inch closer to Mol as she sits on a barstool and asks Alan whether he’s seen a purple tiefling with blue and gold horns as of late. When the barkeeper states that she left the establishment a tenday ago, Mol hunches over herself and stomps out of the room. The intellect devourer tries to further reach to discern the child’s thoughts, but by then, Mol has made herself scarce.
The Emperor blinks, and the memory shutters down. Looking at his lap, he sees Us curled up on it, their illusion flickering on and off due to relaxation. The illithid gives praise to Us, a warm acknowledgment that runs through its spirits, before gently moving the intellect devourer off his lap so he can float over to the desk. To that, Us shakes itself off, solidifying the illusion of a cat once more as it proclaims,
「We will look for more signs of the child! She seems to dislike Friend, and we shall be vigilant of her.」
Straightening up, Us trots off back upstairs, leaving the Emperor to his desk. A myriad of papers and parchment lie there, organized by whichever trade organization it pertains itself to.
The Emperor takes a seat, and begins penning a letter to Nine-Fingers Keene. He has suspicions as to why Mol was poking within the Elfsong Tavern, all of which point to the very dead corpse of Raphael who is either digesting or currently being shat out by Mephistopheles. Still, finding a Knights of the Shield agent active within the Guildhall may raise hackles, especially since the aggressive moves he has made when reestablishing the organization. The Guildmaster might have lent her aid onto Pandora and the two are left on relatively decent terms, but he’s no fool—an alliance like that is only brokered under extreme circumstances, and the clemency that follows does not extend to him.
It is unknown how long Pandora has been walking, floating, flying for until she reached some kind of sentient life. Unfortunately for her, said life was one of talking plants—a colony of moss and lichen too, hardly adept for traveling and collecting info that may be useful. Still, it’s some kind of sign that the area hasn’t been blighted to complete inhabitability.
The moss seems to be unaware of the archfey’s plight or status, and greets her with the eagerness of one who hasn’t been talked to in a long, long time. “Hi! Hi!! You seem new to the area! Would you like to have a seat? I’d give you a treat, but I have no fruit nor arms to permit!”
Pandora suddenly becomes acutely aware of a certain man within Carm’s Garms whose conversations felt like this. Not one to pass on conversation when it could be useful, she takes a seat on a nearby rock. “It’s kind of you to offer, but I have no need for a treat of any sort. I would like to have some questions answered though, if you would be so kind.”
Even though this colony has been rooted to the bark of a pine tree, it still expresses its excitement by rapidly expanding and shrinking in succession. “Yes, of course! I would love to! Just promise me you would talk for a moment?”
The archfey’s wings flutter in delight. “A moment that would only last as long as I ask my questions, yes.”
With that, the moss and lichen gives itself a face, a gloomy little thing that droops despite its excitement when Pandora asks, “Why are you alone? I’ve lived in the Material Plane for a while, and the area there has fey activity surrounding it.”
“You’d be correct, yes! But the Seeing Pearl has been oh-so-terrible as of late, maybe it has something to do with the territory?”
“I’ve only seen one Sister of the Seeing Pearl within the city there, and she’s gone now, despite her best efforts. There’s Jelliwig,” Pandora muses, “But they’ve willingly stayed there since they like being a piece of machinery.”
The sentient moss tenses in upon itself when hearing that. “You killed a hag, my Lady? Oh dear, that’s quite a feat, although I’d be weary to see your own feet turn into manure or moss or leaves or lichen for that slight.”
Pandora squints at that statement, and gets up, deigning to take a closer look at the living plant. The moss’ face quivers slightly, and it shrinks away as much as it could when the archfey attempts to touch it.
“You were cursed, weren’t you?”
“…yes, my Lady. Forgive me for hiding this, but there’s not much one can do when your wings and legs aplenty are gone and nobody tries talking to you.”
Upon hearing that, Pandora reaches into the satchel bound to her wrist, and pulls out the Tarnished Charm. Recognizing the object, the moss attempts to back away once more, and utterly fails at the prospect.
“I can free you, if you’d like. There’s enough of a Sister’s magic inside here to undo your curse.”
The colony perks up at this statement, “Yes! Please do so! It’s so, so lonely here, when it is just us and this rotting tree we are stuck to.”
The Tarnished Charm is a quaint thing, an amulet made of leather, mouse teeth, and chipped opal. Still, the effort made to handcraft it by a hag is no small thing, and Pandora extracts the magic from it, removing the glow from the opal inside. “Very well, on one condition. Pledge your loyalty to me, I’m in need of new attendants.”
The colony of moss and lichen nods at this, as much as it could with no neck, and Pandora flicks the last of Auntie Ethel’s magic towards it. As the sickly green light hits the colony, it disperses into a duo of pixies—one a bright forest green with an expressive face, and another the color of faded sage who bears mischievous eyes.
The sage-colored fairy speaks up first, “Thank you, thank you, kind Lady. We may be two inside that mass of plants, but it’s lonely to talk to yourself for years!”
“Yes, but excuse me for trying to get us to move for things like sunlight or rain or Titania forbid, someone to help us.” The forest pixie pipes up in rebuttal, arms crossed.
Watching the duo bicker at each other, Pandora smiles before clapping her hands. “Now! I’m not going to demand that you follow me everywhere I go, since I’m sure you two would love to catch up with the goings-on of this place,” the duo of pixies look towards her, each tilting their head in opposite directions, “But, you will stay loyal to me, and you will come when I call for you.”
Both of them give a salute, and Pandora continues. “Good to know that’s settled. Now, may I have your names?”
“Lock!” The moss colored pixie yells, the same time as the sage tinted one shouts, “Key!”
The busiest time at the Elfsong Tavern’s business hours vary, but most would agree that it is somewhere between noon and sundown. By then, the kitchen is in full swing, and customers of any kind, whether patriar or crook, have begun ordering both food and drink in earnest. Today, the Emperor has disguised himself as waitstaff, and although he isn’t exactly serving dishes at a pace that rush hour demands, nobody deigns to heckle or call him out on it.
He senses it before he sees or hears the figure. Mol has given herself a seat at the bar once more, ignoring the barkeep’s snippy comment about finding the child’s parents. The child places a handful of coins on the table, and orders a bowl of fiddlehead soup.
The barkeeper laughs at the order, tells Mol to get lost, and then conveniently turns away when the Emperor walks over with a bowl of said soup and sits down next to the tiefling.
“You said you know something about Tav, and to meet me here if I wanted information. So spill it.” Right. The Emperor remembers that to most, if not all of the city, Pandora has gone by the name Tav. It suddenly occurs to him that despite knowing her name, he hasn’t spoken it out loud within the time he knew her.
“Yes, I do know her. I was one of her closest allies throughout her group’s fight against the Absolute.”
Mol barks out a laugh at this statement, all too angry for an eight year old. “Funny how you say that but I’ve never even saw you,” she begins eating the soup in earnest before continuing, “If you really are one of her friends, you should ditch her.”
The illithid does his best impression of faint offense and asks, “Why so?”
“She’s a liar! She cheated me out of a deal that I made.” Mol’s shoulders are hunched once more, and she stabs the spoon into the bowl like it would have made an actual dent.
The rest of the tavern is still ignoring them. “I’m not stupid, I know you’re involved in underground business too. And you probably also know that in stuff like this, you need to grasp what you want.”
A memory: one of Belynne Stelmane after the seizure he induced. A failing on his part, only remedied by the one word she uttered after he retreated from her mind, a golden shield glinting from her memories. Gargauth.
“Maybe I am. Maybe not.” The Emperor looks out onto the staircase that leads to the second floor, “But if you want to find Tav, she has been gone for more than a fortnight now. I do not know when she will return, but she will, considering the rooms above are still rented under her name.”
By now, Mol has finished the soup and pushed the bowl away. “Thanks for a load of nothing, then,” she looks at her hands, balled into fists at her lap and whispers to herself. The Emperor does not hear it, but the tiefling’s thoughts are crystalline as one who hasn’t learned to box them up; determination to still climb the Guild, and deep-seated resentment. She’s crafty, the Emperor would concede that, but her ambitions ought to be hidden if she is to go for the title of Guildmaster right out the gate.
When night raises itself onto the sky, and the only patrons of the Elfsong are those who let themselves become blackout drunk, the Emperor thinks further upon the conversation.
How many strings did the fledgling archfey pull upon the criminal underworld? Minsc barely counts, considering he has been what amounts to a puppet for the Absolute during his reign as the Stone Lord, and the party alliance with Nine-Fingers is one that is fleeting. But the sheer wipeout of the Zhentarim after Minsc was (very reluctantly) brought under protection was a major change, and Pandora’s influence on budding players has just shown itself in a way that runs deep.
Knowing that she did all of that as just a warlock, how much would she do once she returns to the Gate as an archfey?
The land around Pandora slowly, but surely changes as she walks from forest, to clearing, to glade. There are no more pine trees that look sad with their very presence; the land is clear enough to see the sky. Right now, the clouds are pink, with the sun hanging below a particularly large cumulus cloud.
With the sky around her lively and clear, Pandora begins to go up in the air, seeking a better vantage point as to any life around.
To the west, a quaint looking village: there’s a path cobbled together with palm leaves rather than stones that weaves the houses together. Flitting across for a better look, Pandora notices a pair of eladrin behind a haystack, clearly enjoying each other’s company. Signs of life, that’s good. As she lands on the road, a redcap that seems to be employed as town crier begins ringing a bell. “HARK!! HARK FOR A VISITOR UPON THIS SLEEPY CITY!!”
At the racket, the pair of eladrin poke their heads from behind the haystack, irritated from being disturbed. Moments later, a variety of creatures leave their homes; Pandora counts dozen more eladrin, all dressed like dolls, and an assortment of various minor fey that are all dressed like a child’s idea of a city rather than a functional town. Another redcap is dressed in a bloodied apron with an oversized butcher’s knife, a trio of nymphs all look to be farmers if the comical straw hats and pitchforks are to be believed, and so on and so forth. Scattered amongst the rooftops are small faerie dragons in reds and blues; Pandora idly watches as the red ones bark and chase the blue ones that yowl.
The crowd parts in two once they have assembled in what counts as the town square—the cobbled leaves crisscross here to a nearly brick-like pattern. An old oak dryad, presumably the village elder if the mismatched beard and walking stick is to be believed, trods down the path and greets Pandora.
“Good morning, travelled one. What brings you to this village?”
Even just a few years ago, Pandora would have bowed to the greeting; an attendant of the Seelie Court’s outskirts may hold status, but she was simply mortal, and no association of names would change the fact that she was not born of the Feywild. Now, the archfey stands tall amongst the crowd.
“I simply seek answers.”
The conversation that ensued was particularly unenlightening—minus the young fair folk who occasionally step out of the cobbled path in the name of adventure and playing with mortals, the redcap town crier nailed it by calling the village a sleepy town. It’s odd, Pandora thinks, even as she pawns off Naaber’s amulet as thanks after regaling the tale of the unfortunate customer to a bunch of eladrin children whose main ideas of the Material Plane are of boring humans and the seriousness of it all. Settlements this small are definitely dotted around the Feywild, but the charming quaintness of it pales in comparison to either of the faerie courts, or even the City of Blood itself.
About either a minute or an hour away from the village, Pandora lands atop a large mushroom. By now, what was thought of as sunset or sunrise has dimmed significantly, and large fireflies lazily flit around worn down paths. There are travelers once more on the road; a trio of adventurers, two humans and a halfling wear sun-tanned leather and carry packs as they meander down the road. Interesting.
Deigning to watch, Pandora snaps both her fingers, summoning the pair of pixies she restored. The duo pop into existence, before settling themselves on the archfey’s shoulders.
“Any news from you two?”
The halfling trips over his pack, and rolls a few feet down the cobbled path. On both of Pandora’s sides, the pixies giggle before answering. “The land is blighted until the bay, wretched and bordered by the river. We think it’s the hag!”
Pandora leans back onto the smooth surface of the mushroom cap, and muses. “That’s strange. Ethel is a powerful hag, but I managed to kill her when I wasn’t fae myself.” Beneath them, the two humans race down to help their companion up. There are various potions strewn about the opened pack, and Pandora feels enough pity and amusement to cast a spell that slots the undamaged inventory back inside neatly.
Lock pipes up from her right shoulder. “Why help them? They did not ask for it, and they didn't even see you.”
On her left, Key theorizes. “Maybe our Lady feels fondness for mortals, since she knows what goes on in their world.”
Dangling her legs from the mushroom’s rim, Pandora watches the trio look around and give a nondescript “thank you” towards the air, before leaving a single gold coin and scurrying off. Once the road is empty once more, she beckons the gold coin over, noticing the mint design is outdated and most likely from some nowhere town.
“They already paid for it. They did so when I saw that they’d be recounting this experience in a tavern a week from now, and hoping this coin is enough thanks.”
Right before Pandora was nearly banned from Danthelon’s Dancing Axe, partially due to scorching the basement and partially because said scorching nearly brought the Flaming Fist to investigate, the Emperor read the surveillance notes written about the Harpers alongside the tiefling. Within, the logbook details the loose organization of the Harpers, noting that despite their independence being a strength when it comes to matters of interrogation or assault, it becomes a detriment when someone decides to impersonate a member fully.
A similar thing could be said about the Guild. Taking the illusion of a lanky woman, the Emperor plants the idea of trust into the half-orc guarding the entrance, and strides in with utter confidence. It’s not a one-to-one comparison; Nine-Fingers Keene holds information like a deep rooted tree, and her kingpins keep track of any off-putting behaviors from their respective crews, especially since the looming death tolls following the Absolute’s demise began to finalize.
The same couldn’t be said for independent contractors of the Guild, however. Which is why Irene Davenport stands unharmed at the middle of the Guildhall, as various minds allow themselves to be read like books.
The illusion of Irene holds a messenger bag on her left shoulder; before getting lost at sea but a day before the Netherbrain rose to the skies, the real Irene Davenport was to send missive to Waterdeep and invite trade negotiations for rare alchemical ingredients. Within the bag, the Emperor holds no reply from the City of Splendors, but instead has the gold to be returned upon an unsuccessful mission.
To the right of the Guildmaster’s office, bursar Uktar stands, impatience wringing through his nerves. Upon a glance into the collector’s head, the illithid categorizes his thoughts—racketeering is not a new concept within the criminal underworld, but the defeat of the Absolute has made it particularly difficult. Coming out the other end alive and intact makes it so that coercion to lose your home becomes less of a threat when a human makes it. While the Bursar has still managed to make a profit from salvaging corpses on the beach, he was far from the only one to do so, and there’s only so many bodies to loot. The Emperor strides up to him, cool annoyance in his face as he presents the messenger bag filled with gold.
“Davenport. You were supposed to come back last week with a contract, not come in late with empty pockets.” Still, Uktar takes the messenger bag and counts the gold, a hum coming from his mouth as he realizes that the amount hasn’t changed.
On the other hand, the Emperor simply tilts his head and raises a brow. “Hard to convince any of the suspected Lords to even spare a glance at the Guild. News is widespread that the gold that is circulating right now is used for reconstruction efforts rather than profit.”
The Bursar’s mind pulses with further frustration, then quiets down with resignation. “Very well,” he ducks into Nine-Fingers’ office and comes back out empty handed before gesturing to be followed, “I have a new job for you, if you still want the gold.”
Stepping into Nine-Fingers’ office, the Emperor takes in his surroundings. Keene’s bodyguards are evenly spread throughout the space, but the biggest change is the Rashemar whose arms are crossed and who has a hamster atop his head. Even though he’s heard Minsc swear on using the “berserker lodge” as a way to “steer the Guild towards good”, the illithid thought that Nine-Fingers would have dismissed him as soon as possible. Still, with how closely guarded the Underduke is, maybe the ranger is able to retain information regarding current activi-
No. Nope. Minthara has once called Minsc someone who was unwittingly, stupidly chained to simple mindedness, and the Emperor has to concede to the drow on that point. Unfortunately, Boo has taken the opportunity to leap off the Rashemar’s head and is currently pointing to the Emperor’s guise like a hunting dog. Shame that the rodent is more perceptive than the man.
It’s less of a shame though, when Minsc picks up Boo and begins arguing with the hamster. Stage whispers and indignant squeaks fill the office for about a minute, before Nine-Fingers silences the two with her hand. The Guildmaster looks at the guise of Irene Davenport, with a similar squint that a certain former tiefling did to the guise of a fae.
Nine-Fingers does not notice something off about the contractor. “You said that the Lords of Waterdeep refuse to trade due to perceived weakness.”
The Emperor nods at this, hands folded behind his back.
“Then prove that we are not weak. There are reports of Banite stragglers near the foundry, deal with them, but not before squeezing out information about the last of their numbers.”
Efficient as always. It’s something to appreciate about the Guild; when Belynne Stelmane was part of the Knights of the Shield’s inner council, her focus was needle-like. Singular, with objectives building upon her own motives. Astele Keene is broad in comparison, her motivations most likely being rooted in a continuous monopoly rather than personal interest. If wringing traces of Bane dry ends up boosting the Guild’s information network, then so be it.
Upon nodding his head once more, Uktar comes up to the Emperor holding a small box, dense with compensation. As the Underduke watches gold be passed over within hands, the Emperor manages to catch the trail end of a thought:
Large ships currently have difficulty navigating amidst the piles of wreckage within the sea. So how did Davenport arrive so swiftly from Waterdeep?
Sharp as ever, then. It looks like the Emperor would have to dig into how Irene handled conflict negotiation in order to prevent further suspicion.
Sauntering out of the office does not elicit any passing thoughts that may bring in more information, so the Emperor decides to idly sit by a very drunk bard after ordering some ale. Minutes later, a tipsy drow takes a seat beside him and slaps him on the shoulder.
“Irene, my dear! Should’ve told me you turned tail back to town.” The drow puts their boots up onto another barstool, eliciting a glare from the bartender as they order a drink.
The Emperor sets down the flagon of ale and replies, “I’m back here now, so, what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You see, Nine-Fingers herself has recognized my good deeds,” they snatch up their order from the bartender, and spill some of the contents before continuing, “I am now Krenzen of Whitkeep, and my first assignment as kingpin, is to keep an eye on your task, Irene Davenport.”
A drow ruling a district full of gnomes. The Emperor can’t tell whether Nine-Fingers finds that aspect hilarious, or whether she thinks having a drow oversee his mission in the foundry where gnomes were enslaved is more ironic. Maybe it’s both. Drinking the last of the ale, the illithid replies, “And you’re going to amuse yourself by watching me interrogate Banites?”
A fizz-filled recollection spills through Krenzen’s head. Amidst the drunken bubbles, Irene stands over a nondescript figure who has mostly been turned to stone. The person’s mouth remains as flesh, as the woman promises to let them drink basilisk oil in exchange for information. Cruel, but highly effective; the Emperor sees why the woman hasn’t been disposed of yet despite burgeoning suspicions. Krenzen smiles at the memory, face flushed. “It’s always a show whenever you’re not trying to negotiate nicely, so why would I miss it?”
The Emperor leaves the bar, but not before replying. “Very well, I will be at the foundry by dusk tomorrow,” upon Krenzen’s confusion, he continues, “It doesn’t matter whether I tell you the time or not, you’ll end up watching me anyways.”
When Krenzen of Whitkeep brings themselves up to be sober after a full night’s worth of drink, they don’t remember the conversation.
When one lives in the Feywild, they must get used to the erratic sense of time; the minute, the hour, and the day all like bickering as if they were siblings, but all three agree to sit still when the majority of the residents decide on a day of importance. Whether it’d be court gatherings, parades of mischief, or the Wild Hunt itself, fey have a sense of pride when it comes to being timely.
Right now, Pandora understands that today holds no importance at all.
Now, it’s not like she has seen nobody at all, far from it, in fact. Expansive fey settlements may be rare, but if anyone wanders far enough while longing for connection, they’re bound to stumble upon gleaming oaken cities or palaces made of mirrors. Still, the search for answers about the decaying portion of the land slips the archfey’s grasp. And so, the conundrum remains.
Within a faerie marketplace, time seems to stand still; every creature within seems to collectively agree that as much time can be spared to search for the perfect buy, the flawless bargain, so on and so forth.
Lock and Key are no different in this regard. When the trio arrived in the city and Pandora released them of their duties, the sprites immediately booked it to various jewelry shops, citing that “a fair Lady needs to present herself as such”. So, she watches as the pixies pummel a goblin with verbal insults to drive down the price of horn ornaments, all the while drinking from a teacup that has stayed hot for the past forty five minutes.
To the archfey’s side, the dryad who brewed said tea holds the pot expectantly. “Well, saer? Your opinion on the tea, please.”
“You asked me for honesty in exchange for information. Are you sure you’d use it for a review of tea leaves?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have been working on this batch for the past three decades, but the preferences within this place stay the same. Any new presence is exciting to me.”
In response, Pandora laughs, and the parchment-like texture of her wings begin creeping onto her shoulders in the pattern of ferns. “Of course, who am I to deny someone what they want? It is of exceptional quality, although I’m afraid it won’t sell well here.”
As the dryad’s eyes widen, the pixies flit onto the table, each carrying various jewelry to be fitted. “Lock, Key, why don’t you take a drink from this and tell me what you think?” Pandora gestures at the teacup, which has finally cooled down to an acceptable temperature.
Upon finishing their share of beverage, Lock shrugs noncommittally, while Key paces on the table. “It’s alright, but I think this tasted like a drink I had around… forty-five years ago? Definitely don’t think it’s worth the effort to down and drink thirty years of debt.”
“Well, there you have it. Both my opinion, and my attendants.”
While the leaves upon the dryad’s head droop, she places down the teapot and states, “The Sisters of the Seeing Pearl were quite well known for meddling with the mortals for centuries now. Perhaps what you are seeing isn’t a blight upon the land, but a lack of magic that infuses it.”
Now isn’t that special? The arcane bleeding out from the Feywild and onto the material plane is far from unheard of—Pandora experienced it itself when she was a little girl who got swept onto the outskirts of the Seelie Court. But this? A coven that has achieved the opposite effect on such a large scale? That’s new. Then again, it explains a few things about Ethel’s behavior; her mockery of death only to be permanently vanquished when inside the Gate, the longing for a hag daughter to expand the coven’s reach, sisters sending desperate mortals to each other when self-centered and morally corrupt covens tend to devolve into infighting.
Pandora drinks the last of her tea, and thanks the dryad. “Thank you, then. I will be taking my leave soon, but before I go,” she hands the gold coin from earlier to the dryad’s hands, “If you truly do wish for new customers, come find me when this coin rusts completely.”
The dryad fumbles with the coin, stating, “How so, saer? Even the pixies who follow you say that what I make is unoriginal, even though I’ve never seen them step foot into this market…”
“Well,” Pandora starts, gently pushing the teacup away from her. “I have friends, who would love to experience things like these. The tale I share with them is… over. Regrettably. But I’ll see them once more, and I’ll certainly recommend your services!”
Farewells said, Pandora allows her attendants to rest upon her shoulders before leaving, thoughts of restoration magic brewing in the back of her mind. For what would it take to bring back wildness in a place hampered by mortal infighting and fey ambition? The two have coexisted for centuries, as nature can be cruel and man sought to domesticate it, but even the most malevolent of hags simply warped the landscape around them, rather than shriveling it dry like their faces.
When the archfey is out of sight, the dryad looks at the coin; there’s a speck of rust on the rim already.
Turns out, precise petrification is quite difficult if the Weave shies away from your entirety. It’d be one thing to have unlimited attempts to practice, the Emperor supposes, but the way Banite cults are structured has it so that seniority inherently holds more information and tools, without regards to whether the cultist makes good use of them. Tyranny makes one dependent on the other, blind and grasping to the unkind hand if only for stability. Within a full enclave of them, the structure proves to be both self-destructive and effective at subjugation, but the Emperor isn’t wringing information from an entire cohort of Banites, and so he only gets one attempt from the lone Black Gauntlet.
Easy enough task if it were just the Black Gauntlet in the room with him, tied up in a chair surrounded by the corpses of her subordinates. The hurdle comes from Krenzen, who is currently trying to appraise the Banite gear for valuables. The Emperor can concentrate on either siphoning the prisoner’s memories, or he can focus on pacifying the drow sent to keep an eye on him.
Although… as he watches the drow continue to glance onward onto the direction of their territory, there is a way to do both. And get further foothold against Nine-Fingers.
When Krenzen puts in the last gold helmet in their pack, the Emperor speaks up. “Is your first assignment really just watching me tie up a Banite straggler? Would have thought kingpins to be the type to be busy managing their territory.”
“Ah, well. You know how it is, yeah?” The drow looks down on the puddles of blood, red seeping into the bottom of their boots, “I’ve spent years licking off the filth of Nine-Finger’s shoes. I can do so again if it means having my own title.”
In the drow’s reflection, the Emperor notices their mouth in a thin line. Resentment. This will be easier than he thought. “Maybe she’s only doing it as a temporary measure, since all the competent members of the Guild either hold better territories or are dead.”
“What?” The unconscious Banite is forgotten in Krenzen’s mind. “Irene, dear, be very careful with your next words.”
The Emperor turns his back on the drow, and begins to build the illusion of petrification on the Black Gauntlet before continuing. “Why would Nine-Fingers Keene assign someone like you to a place like Whitkeep? A drow in Baldur’s Gate, assigned a miniature post made of gnomes when they could do so much better in the underdark?”
Krenzen paces around the charred remains of the foundry, backpack full of armor clanking obnoxiously. The Emperor swears he could sense a vein close to their brain pop a bit. While working on the captive, the illithid senses a cacophony of thought come from behind him. Anger, indignation, further resentment. All in a roiling boil, now that his words have settled into the drow kingpin’s psyche. Just a little more encouragement…
“It’s clear what she thinks of you, you know? The elf who calls himself “The Professor” was bragging about being handed ownership of Twin Songs, now that the Zhentarim have been driven out.”
The statement hits something within Krenzen’s mind—like a chord being plucked. Assignment forgotten, the drow leaves the ruins to go do something very, very foolish.
Now, alone with the unconscious Black Gauntlet, the Emperor dominates her, then promptly consumes her brain.
Later that night, after the Emperor tightens his disguise as Irene and returns to the Guildhall, he notices an absence of Krenzen and an increase of blood in the sewage. Otherwise, the air is terse with a few mutters thrown his way. Within a few minutes, Nine-Fingers calls him to her office, and two of her bodyguards flank him as he steps inside.
“You’re back later than I thought you’d be,” The Underduke remarks as the illithid places a detailed report on the desk, “and Krenzen has arrived far earlier than I would like. Know anything about that?”
The Emperor stands straight as he gives the reply. “They were continually bragging about their new position of kingpin. It’s not hard to see their underlying insecurity from it.”
“Pity. Brashness aside, they had good potential for enforcement—it’s why I sent them out with you.” The casual tone that Nine-Fingers carries with the statement turns sharp when she states, “And you, did you nudge this about because you wanted the position for yourself?”
A reasonable accusation, although a wrong one. The Emperor stills, realizing he finds it hard to believe he went through all that effort just to check on the Guild, but continues anyway.
“No. We both know that Guild contractors cannot hold permanent positions here. Still, far be it from me to do a little cleanup while on the job.”
Satisfied, the Underduke waves off the bodyguards surrounding the Emperor and leans back on her chair. “Never knew you to be so proactive, Davenport. It’s a welcome change, for now.”
As the Emperor leaves, a twinge of something hits, as he realizes that for all the suspicion Nine-Fingers held against Irene Davenport, she hasn’t managed to notice anything deeper about the contractor other than a strange ambition.
Time passes. And passes once more. The Feywild’s eternal golden sky makes it hard to count the exact number of days that have surpassed since Pandora stepped into the realm, although if she were to give an estimate, she’d place it about half a year. It’s funny, she thinks, whenever the archfey has time to herself away from the growing retinue of dryads and pixies and even a pair of satyr that deigned to begin trumpet lessons while on the road.
All this time, knowledge, and allies she made, and not a single scrap of information towards healing the withered pieces of fey land around the Gate.
There’s a couple of things that stood out, of course: the land isn’t a dead magic zone—such things are a tumor in the Feywild that get automatically excised. On the contrary, the few travelers that skirted the area report foul smelling magic that gnaws within. But otherwise, extracting information from her fellow fey might as well be like pulling teeth from Titania herself. Speaking of, the thought of enlisting the Seelie Court’s help did pass through at times, but Pandora surmises each time that she hasn’t built a reputation well enough to call in such aid.
And so, the blight remains, even as her retinue grows in number. It’s not all bad, per se. Lock and Key have been delighted with the journey so far; the duo flitter by Pandora’s shoulders most of the time, but break away frequently to explore a world they haven’t seen in decades. The tea-making dryad, proclaiming herself to be Eloise, joined a month ago and is currently procuring an extensive collection of tea leaves. Life goes on, even in strange realms.
Stranger still, is the letter that manifests itself into Pandora’s pouch, where nary an amulet remains to be traded.
The parchment it’s inscribed in is dusty but well made; necromantic magic holds the shape together. As the pixies gather beside Pandora’s head like a pair of buzzing earrings, the letter reveals itself to be an invitation to a dinner party. Specifically one held at a riverside camp, simply a day’s walk from the Emerald Grove.
Key, ever inquisitive and who never keeps her mouth shut, asks, “And who would welcome a Lady such as you to a woeful wingding such as this?”
The answer comes out of Pandora before she can even think of it. “Withers.”
“Withers? What kind of name is that?” Lock crosses her arms, clear disdain in her voice.
“Someone who has greatly aided me in times past, that’s who.” Pandora folds the letter back into her pouch, already knowing her response. “I’m going.”
Most of the fey that have been following her protest wildly. One of the satyr drops his trumpet and begins screaming like a goat. A number of dryad cringe into various shrubbery. Still, the archfey simply shakes her head and addresses the crowd. “None of that will change my decision. And no, before you ask, you will not be following me into the dinner party.”
Lock and Key wilt at this rebuttal. So does the other half the crowd: the other satyr begins playing a low note on his trumpet.
“Now, now. Just because I’m gone for a night, doesn’t mean I’m leaving you lot. Go towards the edges of the blighted land I have been investigating.” Pandora stands up, before continuing, “I’ll be back there at first light within the Material Plane, I promise.”
As the retinue begins to trod towards the area, the pixies leading the charge, Pandora snaps her fingers.
If one were to ask Pandora what she thinks of the Material Plane with the eyes of a fae, she’d tell you that it’s dull in comparison to the Feywild. The ground is coarse and gritty, the trees are healthy but hollow. Still, as she casts a minor illusion to hide her wings once more, there’s a tug of sentiment that draws her to the Chionthar’s riverbanks, winding its way down to a fire-lit campsite. It’s beautiful, in a way that fairies won’t be able to comprehend. Nowadays, she wonders whether others who have broke mortality themselves also see it.
It’s Shadowheart who spots her first, on the other side of the river. “Tav? Is that you? Come on over, I was starting to wonder when you’d show up.”
The cleric is just as warm as Pandora remembers, all those months ago. Pleasantries (and a whisper of a true name) aside, the archfey feels no regrets emanating from Shadowheart and her own life traveling to and from Selunite outposts. A relief, considering the end of her parents’ tragedy. After a quick conversation with the now-mature owlbear to accompany Shadowheart, Pandora turns to the rest of the party.
Wyll and Karlach look to be intact, if not reeking of sulfur. As Pandora steps closer to the duo, the stench of devil hits her full force, and she nearly doubles over laughing at a realization. It’s no wonder she held the opinion that Wyll ought to be free of Mizora, and that she spent nights poring over Mol’s contract with Raphael after slaying the cambion; the Hells and the Feywild detest each other with the nature of their deals, one rigid owing to their domination of the Blood War, and the other loose in their interpretation of mortal value. Still, the value of being honest to friends who have to deal with living lies on a daily basis is not to be underestimated, so the archfey dispels the illusion cloaked around her when she approaches.
“Soldier, is that you? You’re glowing!” Despite Karlach’s excitement, the engine in her chest beats steady. Before either her or Wyll could continue, Pandora speaks up.
“I’m sorry for not helping these past six months.” Her wings droop a bit at the statement, and cold shame curls at her stomach from the unfulfilled promise. “I thought that succeeding my patron would also grant me access to Wish, but no, I still am yet to learn that spell.”
Wyll, ever the optimist, hands Pandora a goblet of wine before talking. “Still, it was worth a shot. Karlach and I did find blueprints and a map to Zariel’s forge, so not all hope is lost.”
As the three of them chat, the feeling of hollowness under Pandora’s skin grows. Despite the reassurances from both the tiefling and ranger that the attempt to help was appreciated in the first place, surely she can do something more than just empty words of inspiration? Or at least make Avernus more pleasant as they seek to repair Karlach’s heart. There’s an ice-like chain around her guts, scolding her—it’s against her nature now to owe someone dear, and yet here she is, not even bothering to help.
Then, Karlach mentions something. “Gods, I miss food like this! Everywhere you look in Avernus, it all tastes like ash.”
The statement stirs something within Pandora, and she conjures up a large box. “I have an idea.” Gesturing to the duo before her, the archfey opens the chest to reveal Sylvan glyphs engraved inside.
“From what both of you told me, the Hells are fond of making its inhabitants miserable, yes?” Both Wyll and Karlach sigh and nod at the question. “The Feywild is the complete opposite; it loves having visitors get lost in its pleasures. Drink and food are always at its most vibrant there.”
Pandora places a half-empty vintage inside the box, wherein it fills itself up to brimming once more. Wyll’s eyes widen as he kneels to inspect the bottle, and a very distinct “woah” is heard from Karlach. “This chest will restore whatever provisions you place in it to its previous state, or at least make it more palatable to consume.”
While Karlach begins to stuff the box with various foods, evidently looking forward to having an actual meal while in Avernus, Wyll simply raises an eyebrow at Pandora. “And this is completely free, yes?”
The archfey groans in irritation. “Yes, Wyll, the box is free. Consider it an apology gift for being unable to fix Karlach’s heart, if you must.”
The ice returns at the statement, but what Pandora doesn’t expect in response is a sulfur-filled hug from the former warlock that melts it, stating, “Looks like the archfey is more generous than the adventurer then.”
After inquiring of the exploits of both Minthara and Lae’zel, who have started to work in tandem within the Underdark to root out the remaining strongholds to their respective former queens, Pandora gets an earful of scolding from Tara the tressym.
“Honestly, if you are to claim to save the best for last, you’d better butter it up further then, miss archfey!” The tressym stands proudly as she gives the statement, before flying over to a nearby cushion that’s already dusted with fur.
To the right of Tara, Gale and Halsin chat, the former trying and somewhat succeeding in convincing the latter to give a guest lecture on Druidic magic for his students at Blackstaff Academy. Upon stepping into radius, the two men turn towards her, bearing smiles.
“Tav! Or should I begin calling you ‘Pandora’, since that’s what Thaniel and Oliver have started to refer to you as?” Halsin looks over Pandora before his eyes narrow slightly. “Something bothers you, friend.”
Of course the druid who spent his childhood with a fey spirit is perceptive. Pandora simply replies, “That would be correct, but, before I burden you with my troubles, let’s catch up.”
Catching up, as it turns out, means a flurry of questions as to how fey magic differs from Gale, following another invitation to be a guest lecturer at Blackstaff. Pandora agrees, if only to see how the newly minted professor uses the threat of the orb against a bunch of college students. On the other hand, Halsin seems to be pleasantly worn out by rebuilding Reithwin, citing that Shadowheart has been frequenting the area whenever Isobel and Dame Aylin stop by. When Tara loops back around to land on Gale’s shoulders, Pandora changes the subject.
“You’d be correct that something worries me, Halsin.” Pandora shakes her head, “I must admit, it’s a bit of a shame that neither Thaniel or Oliver are here, their counsel would have been valuable as well.”
“Oh? I’d assume this is an issue with the Feywild then?”
“Mm… yes and no. The Feywild’s equivalent to Baldur’s Gate has been blighted—magic still permeates the land, but it’s hungry and the fey I’ve asked describe it as foul.”
Gale crosses his arms thoughtfully at the statement, stating, “Blighted magic, huh? If you have a sample, I could cross-examine it with any academy texts.”
Reaching into a pocket, Pandora hands the wizard a shriveled pinecone to inspect as she chats with Halsin, comparing characteristics of the current blight to the Shadow Curse that haunted Moonrise Towers, especially since the Moonlanterns used to counteract it held pixies as prisoner. Right as Halsin offers a space to Pandora so she can consult the fae twins, Gale exclaims something unintelligible.
The pinecone, dropped on the ground, glows a sickly magenta, then sputters out completely.
On the other hand, Gale’s hands begin to tremble. As Halsin dashes off to grab some water, Pandora gently guides him to sit down before he faints and hits his head on the dirt. Tara makes her way down to the wizard’s lap and begins nibbling at his hands to bring him out of his stupor. As if the wizard was an automaton, his hands begin petting the tressym as they steady once more. The druid returns with a flask of cold water, handing it to Gale as he pats the man on his back.
“That… that magic. I recognize it.” A look settles upon Gale’s eyes, and his hand ghosts over the now-dormant orb in his chest before he continues, “It’s the same Netherese magic that hungered for the Weave. Always hungry.”
Well, this got significantly more concerning. Pandora sits next to Gale, thoughts swirling in her head.
“You mentioned that after abandoning the Crown of Karsus, the orb went silent, no?”
Gale takes a deep breath, wringing out the last of his nerves. “Yes, I don’t know the specifics as to why—Mystra has been silent to me after I stopped thinking of trawling for the relic. But, I do know that it stopped after I found… joy, contentment. Just the happiness I’ve made for myself, teaching students, having tea with my mother and Tara.”
Pandora stays silent, wings folded against her back. Next to her, Halsin sits down as well, lost in thought.
“I think that the orb wanted me to stay hungry,” Gale continues, his voice soft, “Karsus’ Folly always was rooted in wants, in ambition. You know, I spent a lot of nights awake, wondering whether I should reforge the crown myself after reading through that tome.”
Whatever gears are turning in Halsin’s head clicks into place upon Gale’s statement. “If there are pieces of Karsite Weave scattered throughout the city, then it makes sense that it would seep into the Feywild. It’s why the Shadow Curse was so deeply rooted within the land; it took hold of Thaniel as well.”
Pandora considers this for a moment. “That makes sense, but how would something like the Karsite Weave implant itself onto the Feywild? Everyone I’ve asked calls the magic itself to be foul, and…”
Ever wicked, even some of the fey consider hags to be foul creatures—neither the Seelie or Unseelie Courts had overly pleasant relations with them. Ethel has clearly set up a home base beneath the Blushing Mermaid, suggesting a long history of deals within the city. And if the presence of a hag warped her surroundings, fueled by the inherent, ever-reaching ambition of the Karsite Weave… no wonder the magic within the area has been slowly eaten throughout the time the Absolute has been stationed beneath the city itself.
The image of an archfey doing a facepalm brings a laugh out of both Gale and Tara. “Of course it’s Ethel. Again. Gods above, I’ve already slain her once, and I have to clean up her mess now?”
Pandora stands up, brushing off her dress as she does so. “Thank you, both of you. Bringing up past ghosts is never easy, and yet both of you did it for me.”
“Of course, although I’d expect a bit more for thanks considering you gave Mr. Dekarios such a fright!” The tressym has clambered back onto Gale’s shoulders.
“Fine, fine. I’ll do a demonstration as well during that guest lecture. Sounds good?” She reaches her hand down to Gale, who takes it as he stands up, before turning it into a handshake.
When dawn begins to break at the riverside, Pandora thanks Withers for the invitation and steps back into the Feywild. As she begins to fly, excitement and nervousness buzz in the back of her head at the prospect of fixing the blighted land.
The Emperor does not attend the dinner party.
He has received an invitation, of course, as the Scribe known as “Withers” has knowledge of his time within the Astral Prism. But there are important matters to take care of within the city, and while Lae’zel has been able to be talked down from massacring him after Orpheus’ death, he seriously doubts his presence in such a gathering would be a pleasant addition to the mood.
There is also the fact that for the past six months, the rooms above him remain rented under the name “Tav”.
Now, it won’t do to play guard dog over an archfey’s belongings. And the rooms are locked securely. But as spies come in and out of the Elfsong Tavern, the illithid finds himself donning a disguise to survey the city, then looking at the staircase once more when he returns to the basement. Nevertheless, the act doesn’t interfere with his own work, so he lets the newly formed habit slide.
As the Emperor stands over his desk, mentioning to Us that it should be on the lookout for a certain High Harper, his eyes trace over the scattered documents. There’s a ledger to the side, names and information for the members of the Knights of The Shield, and the rest of the surface boasts contracts, papers, and payment stubs that broker deals to help funnel gold into the city proper. Tracing the top of a slight stack, the illithid reviews a new agreement to ship alchemical ingredients from Waterdeep.
About a week after the guise of Irene Davenport flushed out the rest of the Banite strongholds within the lower city, Nine-Fingers Keene re-deposited the job to secure alchemical ingredients from Waterdeep once more. From what the Emperor remembers of Irene’s initial contract, the ingredients that were being asked for now hold more tinctures that would be vital for utility potions that may help the manual labor it takes to bring up the city. Beneath that though, a dozen or so orders for ingredients such as tongue of madness fungi raises alarm. Ingredients for potions of psychic resistance. The Underduke may not have deduced who’s under Davenport’s skin, but the strides made by The Knights of The Shield have made a nest in the forefront of her mind.
It doesn’t matter, in the end. Upon testing the potion onto one of his spies, the illithid deduces that the consumption of Orpheus’ power has bolstered his own abilities by about seventy six percent. Said spy’s thoughts were severely clouded from a distance, yes, but as the Emperor crept closer, his thoughts crystallized into focus once more within a radius of three feet.
The last of the patrons within the Elfsong Tavern begin to file out, carrying with them memories of beer and wines and all kinds of slurred words. When the last of the staff lock up the door, the Emperor floats his way up the stairs, lost in no particular thought until the upper room doors impose over him. Belynne’s room is to the side, permanently locked and sealed off to the public now. The final resting place for a duke. The illithid’s shadow is cast over the sliding doors of the parlor, and his thoughts catch up to him a second too late.
Still, let it not be said that the Emperor cannot commit to his own (bad) choices. Taking the spare key tucked to his side, the illithid slides the parlor doors open and takes in the surroundings. The beds are all dusty now, as Pandora instructed her rooms not to be touched even by staff. There’s a pile of bedrolls on the conversation pit, oft used whenever either Pandora or any of her companions had a bad night’s sleep. That too, begins to harbor dust, alongside a maroon bloodstain, courtesy of Orin.
What isn’t covered in a fine layer of the stuff is the camp chest, tucked beside one of the couches. The hardwood is still glossy, and all of the items that surround it still keep their shine.
Including a note that wasn’t there before.
Floating over, as to not disturb the dust-laden floors, the Emperor gingerly picks up the paper sitting on the camp chest. The parchment itself is extravagant; gold filigree borders the margin of the note’s contents, and the note itself has been folded into the shape of a paper crane. As the illithid unfolds the note, its contents make itself clear.
”I must have been gone for a while for you to have unfolded this piece of paper. You were always the sentimental type, weren’t you?”
When the Emperor finds himself back underneath the Elfsong Tavern, the note takes the shape of a crane once more. He consumes one of the brains in storage, and sits back down on his desk, ready to work throughout the night again. Occasionally, an errant thought crosses his head, mainly pertaining to how the archfey seemingly leaves crumbs of herself for him to find, so unlike the guardian he crafted for her or how he acted during the last few weeks before the Netherbrain’s defeat. It makes him go write a letter for the dinner party, complete with apologies over how written communication is insufficient and how allyship between himself and Pandora is something he would like to further pursue, before signing it as “Your Friend”.
After he gets a courier to take the envelope, the Emperor subconsciously looks at the empty wall where Belynne’s portrait once hung, and remembers Pandora has taken that too.
When two dozen or so fey find themselves at the crag-like borders of the blighted Feywild, Pandora raises her hand up to stop them from proceeding further. Here, the gradient between healthy vegetation and malnourished pine trees deepens sharply, and the tall conifers stretch higher above, starved. Craning her head upwards, Pandora notices the tips of these trees, harboring a red sheen upon its needle-like leaves. Ever reaching higher, always hungry for more. An old analogy from Gale comes to mind at this moment, where he compares the magic he used to feed the orb to a light drizzle against a forest fire.
Fingers crossed, Pandora fully steps into the blighted land. “Lock, Key, make sure nobody follows me here.”
While both pixies show concern, they nod at the order. “And if something goes wrong, my Lady?” Key asks as she takes her place beside Lock.
“Do you remember that invitation I received?” Pandora takes out the letter, and tosses it towards Lock, stating, “If I don’t return, find that Withers fellow. At the very least, he’ll know what to do.”
As the duo stand guard, the archfey floats towards the withering soil.
There’s a certain… eeriness, to the isolation felt in this portion of the Feywild. When Pandora first arrived in the area, her mind was too occupied with the idea of said isolation existing in the first place; even in the vast empty spaces between settlements, the land itself accompanies travelers. Now though, armed with the knowledge of what drank through the magic here, her palms sweat in trepidation. The pine trees glint blood red once again.
Netherese magic wraps itself around Pandora’s wrist, and whispers, “Adventurer. Archfey. Warlock. Wanter.”
Despite all the months Pandora spent traveling alongside Gale, and the peek she made towards the tome Karsus himself wrote about his regalia, none of it prepared her for the Karsite Weave to start talking to her. Her wings bristle in alarm, and gold-leaf begins creeping onto her shoulders as a warning.
“If you’re here to use me as a vessel, then I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I quite like my own power.”
The red mist circles around her tail next. “You might like it, but would you ever stay content with it?”
Memories flash into Pandora’s mind. Isolation and adoration from being a mortal attendant to an archfey. A bargain struck, her name traded for a chance to play at an impossible game. Favors. So many favors being taken, then traded, and taken once more.
The intoxicating spike of power when she won and her patron conceded. Parchment wings flourishing from her back.
The Karsite Weave wraps itself around the archfey’s neck. Its voice sounds like a lover from the Astral Sea. “You could always be more. You can be one with the Seelie Court, you can build your home without ever carving it out of someone else.”
“Let me in.”
Gale’s trembling hands make way inside Pandora’s mind. What then, if she takes the Karsite Weave by its word to fill the want under her skin? Her friends, for better or worse, have already carved their own places in the world; all that remains is her and the Feywild—the Seelie Court in all its self-indulgence into mortal customs and grandiose tales without the same mortal stakes to back it up. Lock and Key have spent the past however long as a clump of plants and remain immaterial, meanwhile, Eloise has been trying to bring a new tea blend for customers who have always been bored and always will be.
“You have the power to let me in. Build new people from scratch, make your own stakes.” The noose tightens around her neck.
Those three adventurers in the Feywild pop up in her head—did they make it? She still doesn’t recognize that coin they unwittingly offered her, and maybe she won’t ever do so if she joins her brethren. Then again, there’s always more people stepping into those lands, enchanted by the stories of Titania and Oberon. She’ll have eternity to see a million different copies of those adventurers. Every iteration of each fairytale.
“Most adventurers end up dead anyways, foolish tragedies of their own making. You can empower them, pull their strings so they can live to tell tales of you.”
Foolish tragedies indeed. It’s funny though, Pandora muses, even as bright magenta caresses her horns. Balduran had the gold, the dragon, the prestige. Didn’t stop him from undergoing ceremorphosis. Although… the joke leverages itself against the Karsite Weave’s whispers. Why did the illithid come back to Baldur’s Gate, influencing the city’s politics in relative anonymity despite the tragedy that befell him? The question stops the Netherese magic from wrapping the archfey further in red as she contemplates the question.
The Karsite Weave murmurs through Pandora’s head, again and again.
It’ll give her the power to reshape history. The Emperor quite literally founded one of the most influential cities on the Sword Coast.
Holding Karsus’ Folly in her hands means Faerûn’s most undeniable tragedy is in her possession. Pandora doesn’t know what Karsus’ voice sounds like, how he liked to be touched, or his once-favorite meal.
The child-who-would-be-god created this magic to bring Netheril’s decline to a halt, and ascend the empire to greatness once more as he ascended to godhood. The archfey knows that beneath a tavern basement, there’s a mind flayer who has killed the best thing to ever happen to him and left the corpse to be buried underneath stone.
She slowly removes the rope around her neck, and addresses it. “Enough. I’ve made my choice, and you’ll have to live with it.”
Pandora snaps the cord, and magic overwhelms her all the same.
…
…When the archfey comes to, it is to the marble floors of a pavilion. Ivy covers a ring of thin ivory columns, and the land around her is blanketed in long stalks of green and lavender grass. Getting up, she inspects the plants around her—shrubs adorned with lily flowers border the pavilion, each of which tell a tale that she hoarded from journals and books stolen in her travels. One of them begins reciting a passage from “The Tales of Balduran”, to which the archfey closes the flower down with a slight giggle.
Pandora whistles towards the gentle breeze to call for her newfound retinue, and feels the newly formed Domain of Delight sing to her in turn.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
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You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
神策府是景元的领地，近七百年来一直如此。他的信息素渗透在它的墙壁里，如同风暴后的薄雾般弥漫，如此深刻地铭刻在玉石与岩石中，无人能够取代。这里的一切都闻起来像他；这里的一切都感觉像他。进入这个地方就是进入他的领域。
它的无处不在本该令丹恒不适。虽然星穹列车也是如此，其奢华内饰的每一寸都带有姬子无可置疑的印记——但姬子是个例外，她那带着烟熏咖啡香的信息素如同醇和的早晨般抚慰人心。她是家该有的味道。
但现在景元站在这里，向他提供了一个选择。向他提供了丹恒曾经如此渴望的东西，以至于它会在午夜将他惊醒，让他喘不过气，他的心像一个巨大、悸动的瘀伤：
终于，罗浮的大门为他敞开。终于，他可以漫步深巷，品尝美食，游览风景——所有这些他从幼时就曾梦想过的事情，蜷缩在那冰冷的地板上 手腕沉重地抚摸着新书上的照片，仿佛它们能带他去真实世界时。
然而。
景元的棱角在战斗后已经柔和。他用清澈的目光和淡淡的微笑看着丹恒，那微笑在丹恒等待消息的四天里一直在他脑海中挥之不去。一切仍然混乱：他的思绪、他的记忆、他的感受。深入挖掘只会发掘出更多的结。
这不是单方面能解决的事情。理智上，丹恒明白这一点。但是在夜深人静时下决心是一回事，那时万籁俱寂，只有忧虑作伴；在光天化日之下维持那份决心则完全是另外一回事。
“那么，祝你们顺利，星穹列车的朋友们，”景元说。他以一种熟练、流畅的动作卷起手中的卷轴，将精致的红绳重新系好。“愿群星指引你们前行。”
这就是结局了。星核被封印；景元重新站起来了；对逝去的人也已表达了敬意。一周以惊人的速度过去了，姬子的目光早已飘向天空。几乎没有理由再逗留了。
星、三月七和瓦尔特转身离去。
丹恒留在原地。
“将军，”他说，所有人都停下了脚步。几双眼睛落在他后脑勺上，但他毫不在意。他的神经已经够紧张了。“我想和您谈谈。如果您有时间的话。”
景元表情的变化过于微妙，丹恒无法解读。他把卷轴放在桌上。“当然可以。”
“我们在外面等你，”瓦尔特说。
“不用，”丹恒说。三月七和星交换了一下眼神。“我不知道会花多久。”
瓦尔特推了推眼镜。他审视着丹恒，然后是景元。作为一个beta，他很少能根据信息素判断情况，但丹恒不需要它们也能知道他在想什么。不让一个omega单独与不熟悉的alpha在一起是常识。即使是丹恒和姬子，一开始也需要调节适应。
但他们并非真正独处。沿着大厅，将军的一小群手下正在整理架子上的档案。四名云骑军站在入口处执勤，如同守卫门厅的石狮子般一动不动、沉默无声。
瓦尔特似乎考虑了所有这些因素。停顿片刻后，他向丹恒点了点头。
“三月和我打算去某个地方买点小吃，”星说。“你想要什么吗？”
“不用了，”丹恒说。“谢谢。”
星的目光很锐利。“我会开着手机。如果你想到什么就发信息给我们。”
说完，星穹列车的成员们鱼贯走出大厅。星离开前最后看了他一眼，脸上毫无表情。
“你找到了很好的伙伴。”
“是他们找到了我。”丹恒转回身。
景元的嘴角弯起。“那么你们双方都很幸运。”
“是的，”丹恒说，心想：
这份幸运始于你。
他们并非真正独处，但也差不多了。尘埃在透过落地窗的阳光中飞舞，悬挂的虎符标志在景元的书桌上投下一个长长的圆形阴影，他的狮首肩甲流淌着液态的金色光泽。
景元似乎并不受两人之间的沉默影响。他用一种平静的目光看着丹恒，那种平静只能来自于一生的等待，与丹恒所预期的行为截然相反。在风暴过后的平静中，他们终于可以审视彼此。他们终于可以真正相见。
丹恒的手拂过另一只袖口。当景元的眼睛追踪这个动作时，他的心跳加速了。“我们可以……”
他立刻觉得自己很傻。这更多是种形式，但是……
作为回应，景元解开了他的腕甲。丹恒的心在胸腔里怦怦直跳，看着他取下它，卷起袖子，无声地伸出一截苍白的手腕。
丹恒也照做了。他拉起袖子，走近一步。
他不常这样做。在缺乏社交礼仪的环境中长大后，社交习俗似乎总是显得琐碎，而释放信息素，无论何种形式，总是感觉过于亲密。
“你好，”它在说。“这就是我。”就像翻开你的日记供陌生人浏览。
但丹恒必须知道。
接触是短暂的。他们都没有停留，但那闪过的热度——触碰带来的刺痛感——又是另一件让丹恒在脑海中反复思量、多年后回忆起来仍会抚慰心中痛楚的事。过去几天，他一直在想，他是否有机会这样做，景元是否会允许如此亲密的举动。
他将手腕举到鼻前，瞥见景元也做了同样的事。
他的身体立刻起了反应。景元的信息素如同记忆中一样令人沉醉：浓郁、肥沃、带电，如同力量、权力、平和与宁静。如此浓缩的气味，像一串火花点燃他的神经，一路噼啪作响到他的指尖。
是的，他想。他是对的。是的，这是——景元就是——
但是——
景元对他微笑，他们放下手腕。
怎么？
“我不明白。”
景元取回他的腕甲，重新戴上。“你想问什么问题？”
“你没有结契，”丹恒说。
景元竟然看起来觉得他的话有趣。他熟练地用一只手重新扣好搭扣。“是的。”
然后——
他的困惑变成了尴尬。丹恒移开视线。
“丹恒，”景元说。他叫丹恒名字的方式像无数小钩子挂在丹恒的脑海里，如此耐心，如此意味深长，仿佛景元如果可以，会把它捧在手心。“你想问什么？”
丹恒深吸一口气。“我们是灵魂伴侣。”
“似乎如此。”
听到它被说出来很令人吃惊。丹恒定了定神，问道：“那丹枫呢？”
丹枫，即使在这一点上，也是笼罩在丹恒身上的阴影。持明族重视力量。与其他物种不同，两个alpha之间的灵魂伴侣纽带会受到高度尊崇。
“如你所言，丹枫已逝，”景元说。他端详着丹恒，他的脸如同他声音的语调一样难以捉摸。“无论如何，他和我不是灵魂伴侣。持明族认为龙尊高于此类概念。在我认识他的整个时间里，他始终孑然一身。”
“我不是龙尊，”丹恒说，“龙师们也管不了我。”
景元的嘴角又微微扬起一点。“你说得对。”
“那样的话——”丹恒迎上他的目光。“现在怎么办？”
景元回望着他。他举止中有种上位者的风范，他的面容如此平静，他的姿态如此放松，令人既羡慕又沮丧。他的信息素没有泄露任何信息。
更远处，他的助手和策士们继续忙碌着，对他们毫不在意。卷轴被重新整理时的纸张沙沙作响，低语声在背景中持续，墙壁吞噬了声音，即使是在如此开阔的空间里。
丹恒站稳脚跟。在漫长的沉默中，他的呼吸颤抖着，但他没有让步。
“灵魂伴侣不必对彼此负责，”景元终于说道。他的指尖拂过那份几分钟前刚撤销了丹恒流放令的卷轴，它仍然放在他身后的书桌上。“无论别人怎么说，你都可以和之前一样自由离开。”
“这不是我想问的。”
“选择权在你。”
“这不是我想问的，”丹恒又说了一遍。“你可以直接对我说。这值得吗？”
“这不是我能提供的答案，”景元说。“它无法被量化。”
“我想知道它是否值得。”
“丹恒……”
“但前提是你也想要它，”丹恒说。他的手指蜷曲，指甲陷入滚烫的手掌。“我知道……我知道我是持明族，正因为如此，我不能……”
他不该在意的。他或许是持明族，但他不是一个合格的持明族，没有人指导他，没有人教他得体的举止、规矩，没有人向他灌输他自身的价值或缺憾。他不该在意，因为他周围的人也不在意。
但景元……景元得到的关注比任何人都多。他会受到最大的影响——来自他们双方族人的评判。
景元等待着。只有当丹恒没有继续说下去时，他才说：“如果我想要孩子，几百年前就有了。”
丹恒的肩膀垂了下来。“那么……”
“我是认真的，”景元说。“不要觉得对我有义务。你的星穹列车伙伴们在等你，我相信还有很多事你们想一起去做。”
“但你想要什么？”
“我想要你随心而活。”景元说得如此平静，如此实事求是，仿佛这没什么，仿佛这很容易，仿佛他没有策划数百年的计谋来实现它。“你生命中的太多已经被夺走了。”
“这并不互斥。”
他只得到了另一个带着遗憾的微笑。丹恒因恼怒而刺痛，无法控制热度渗入他的脸颊和衣服下的刺痛感。
“也许你不明白，”他在景元开口前说道。“你表现得好像希望我说不，因为你觉得像这样的事情会把我束缚在你身边。”
“你将永远不会再被束缚。”
“我不会，”丹恒说，“因为你是那个放我走的人。”
包裹住景元内心的铠甲裂开了一道缝。他叹了口气，双臂交叉，闭上眼睛，一种奇怪的、近乎凄凉的表情掠过他的脸。看到这一幕，丹恒的内心揪紧了。
也许这并不公平。毕竟，毋庸置疑，丹恒会回到星穹列车。姬子、瓦尔特、星和三月七仍然需要他，还有那么多世界要重访，那么多世界要去开拓，那么多世界被星核留下了它们的毒瘤。
景元已经活了这么久。他可能不想等待——他可能没有时间等待。仙舟长生种并非真正不朽，魔阴身的威胁始终潜伏在他们的血脉中。经历了这么多世纪，经历了这么多悲痛，他可能已经走到了生命的黄昏。想到这一点，丹恒内心某处颤抖了。
景元眉头紧锁。他的手臂垂回身侧。“你还好吗？”
“没事，”丹恒说。不。那不重要。重要的是此时此地。他再次深吸一口气，强迫自己平静下来。他的体温持续升高；他第一次因为自己的外套感觉束缚而不适，但他通常体温很低。
“如果你不喜欢，就直接告诉我，”他说。“让我知道。这样我们都能继续下一步。”
毕竟，景元肩负着丹恒所没有的责任。他是稳定、繁荣和长寿的光辉典范，是他所领导的数百万生命的永恒壁垒——一个完美的alpha。而丹恒——
丹恒只是一个没有生育能力的omega，一个曾经与景元平起平坐、如今又将再次抛下景元的男人的幽灵。
尽管如此，他仍抱有希望。尽管如此，他仍心存愿望。那是景元。景元，那个引领他走向光明的人。他的灵魂伴侣。当然是他。丹恒不会接受其他任何人。
阴影变换。景元身后，一团云朵遮蔽了天空；他发梢泛着白光。丹恒想，他身边总是追随着太阳。在他的记忆中，景元从未不是金色的。他的眼睛刺痛，有那么一刻，他的视线分散了，就像他查阅资料库太久时那样。
“丹恒，”景元终于开口，丹恒努力重新聚焦，期待在他胸中绷紧，让他屏息。
但景元表情严肃，一丝焦虑掺入了他的信息素，奇怪地不合时宜。“你需要回列车了。”
哦。
原来如此。
景元读懂了他脸上的表情，迅速修正道：“我们晚些时候再继续，”他说，直到这时丹恒才注意到景元站得笔直，肩膀僵硬，双手背在身后，不再放松，就在丹恒以为没什么能扰乱他的时候。“现在不是好时机。我之前不确定，但现在我确定了。你进入发情期了。”
什么？
一滴冷汗滑下丹恒的脊椎。“这不可能。”
景元只是看着他。
当然可能。这是生理规律。但对持明族omega来说，发情期很少见，或者说几乎没有，因为他们没有自然的周期可言——只有诱因。丹恒立刻重新审视自身。
体温过高、疲惫、感官高度敏感，几乎到了过敏的程度。
他的呼吸在喉咙里哽住。他只经历过一次发情期：被流放后的一周，他仍然在迷失和不知所措时，蜷缩在星际和平公司的一个太空港里，周围是一群难民。他病得很凶——或许至少，他以为是病得很凶，太像流感了，让他没有怀疑其他的问题。一个好心的omega女性照顾他度过了最糟糕的时期，自那以后他就再没经历过。
在景元保持尊重的距离下，丹恒对他的感知应该刚好不至于让他牙齿发酸。相反，丹恒惊恐地意识到，他的信息素正持续变浓，它舔舐着丹恒的喉咙后部，刺激着他的唾液腺——深沉、温暖。
哦，不。
“等等，”景元说，当丹恒猛地转身时，丹恒僵住了，本能地、不稳地。缓慢、粘稠的恐慌渗入他的胃里，他太不小心了。
但景元没有靠近。他的手仍然坚定地背在身后。无论如何，他看起来很平静。他怎么能这么平静？“你不该独自回去，”他说。“让我陪你一起。”
天旋地转，丹恒的发际线上渗出冷汗。
景元是对的，即使丹恒不希望他是对的。他不该独自回去。发情前期随时可能变成完全的发情期，可能让他在外面丧失行动能力，完全、彻底地毫无防备。至少景元是他认识的人。至少他是……他是丹恒的灵魂伴侣。即使景元不想要他，这也必须算点什么。
“拜托，”景元说，当丹恒没有回答时。他的声音变得柔和，没有一丝命令的痕迹。“让我陪你一起。”
“好，”丹恒说。
景元眼周的紧绷感消失了，他松了口气。丹恒现在能闻到他身上的释然——而他自己的一丝不安也随之消散。
景元没有立刻拉近距离。他绕过书桌，丹恒不知怎么地就失去了对他身影的视线，视野中的黑点成倍增加，他的清醒在悬崖上摇摇欲坠。他怎么没早点发现？他的思绪像水一样流淌。太热了。他的衬衫，他的裤子，他的外套——一切都粘着他。他的衣领压迫着他颈部的腺体，他伸手去拉开拉链。
一只手阻止了他。“盖着它，”景元说，然后将一件有重量的东西披在丹恒肩上：一件斗篷，厚实而做工精良，大地般的颜色，绣着金线，浸透了景元的气味，浓到让丹恒口腔生出唾液。
景元伸手到他身后，拉上兜帽。“这有助于掩盖信息素。”
丹恒脸红了。“我控制不了，”他咕哝道。
景元给了他一个淡淡的微笑。然后他的脸色变得严肃。“你能给你的朋友们发个消息吗？”
好主意。丹恒拿出手机，异常敏锐地意识到景元一直注视着他——敏锐地、专注地、极其让人分心，他的脉搏加速。屏幕上的文字模糊又清晰。
“靠近点，”景元说，一旦消息发送出去。他将目光投向大厅里的人员，他们礼貌地别开脸。“那样我能更好地掩盖你。”
丹恒的脸又烧起来，他低下头。
神策府高墙之外，罗浮的午后熙熙攘攘。绯红的树叶在风中打着旋，在匆忙生活的市民脚边飞舞。宇宙继续运转，总是如此，对每个个体的惊天困境视而不见。
阳光刺痛丹恒的眼睛。微风虽然清新，却带来大量混杂的信息素，陌生而刺鼻，在他以前从未注意过时显得如此强烈。这令人不快，一切都令人不快，不安全。
他的拳头攥紧了借来的斗篷，揉皱了柔软的布料。挫败感在他的血管中沸腾，他的理智正在丧失。每一个本能都敦促他转身回去，回到神策府，那里景元的信息素可以包围他、抚慰他、保护他安全，而他难道不是——难道不是在一小时前还讨厌那样吗？
景元本人走在他身边，步伐缓慢以配合丹恒小鹿般不稳的步态。这应该足够了，这应该更好，因为源头就在这里，触手可及。但事实并非如此。斗篷将他笼罩在景元的气息里，但这也不够。
丹恒……丹恒想伸手去触碰他。如果他……景元会作何反应？
只是他们并非独处；旁观者从四面八方注视着。丹恒畏缩了。他克制住了。
景元没有停下。他的存在有效地转移了人们对丹恒状况的注意，他的信息素变得像雷暴云一样尖锐，充满了警告。它本该激发丹恒体内所有尖锐的战斗或逃跑本能，就像它让路人远远绕开他们一样；相反，它点燃了一种他很少感受过的火焰。
他把它捧近，寻求它的慰藉。太阳炙烤着他的头顶，人行道在他脚下摇晃。斗篷掩盖了他，但也加剧了其他问题，太暗、太厚、太闷热。汗水顺着他的脖子流下，即使是远处的低语也像在他耳边轰鸣。
一只手轻轻碰了碰他的背，如此轻微却又如此巨大。丹恒颤抖了一下。
“再坚持一小会儿，”景元说。
“我没事，”丹恒勉强说道。
景元的眼睛弯了弯，他没有移开手。
当他们到达流云渡时，丹恒已经迷失了方向，几乎失去意识，仅凭一口气勉强抓住最后一丝清醒。他的心在肋骨间雷鸣；恶心感在他胃里翻腾。
他呼吸困难。景元的手臂更紧地环住了他——不再只是一只手，而是他的手臂，支撑着他站稳。在丹恒的脸颊下，他的身体线条坚硬而紧绷。
忧虑刺穿了迷雾。他试图抬起头，但它太重了。
接着他眨了眨眼，他们已站在星穹列车前。
门立刻打开了。一股浓郁、苦涩的气味笼罩了他们，充满了关切。“丹恒，”姬子说。她的目光扫向景元，然后是他们之间没有空隙的距离和斗篷。“将军。我收到了他的消息，很抱歉我们没能在更好的情况下见面。”
“彼此彼此，”景元说。他没有移动脚步进入，就像姬子也没有让开的表示。他们互相审视着。
丹恒又颤抖了一下，强烈地意识到那只环着他的手，被如此紧贴的感觉有多好。他的皮肤因汗水而湿透滴落，而他所能想到的只是更深入地埋进去。景元的拇指在他腰间画着安抚的圆圈。
空气中的什么变了，景元颔首。“请照顾好他。”
姬子也放松下来，她握着门框的手松开了。“我们当然会。谢谢你送他回来。其他人已经在回来的路上了。”
景元点点头。他轻轻推了推丹恒向前，他的手终于收回，但丹恒发出了抗议的声音。他的脚像生了根一样钉在地上。
“丹恒，”姬子说。她微笑着。“没事的。进来吧。”
他应该进去，他知道。关于她的一切都是舒适而熟悉的。姬子是在那个太空港找到他的人，那时他踌躇不前却无处可去。是那个给他提供容身之处的人；是那个给了他目标、陪伴、友谊的人。是那个教会他被需要是什么感觉的人。她从见到他的那一刻就知道他是omega，却依然接纳了他。她是家人。
但她不是他想要的人。
他的手指抠进了景元的前臂。他不确定自己什么时候抓住他的；他甚至不确定自己抓住他想做什么。景元不能留下。他已经做得够多了。
或许感觉到他的挣扎，景元等待他镇定下来。他似乎对丹恒有着无尽的耐心，无论丹恒给他制造了多少麻烦。丹恒感到心痛，即使是姬子若有所思的目光也无法让他羞愧地放手。
最终，景元的神情柔和下来。他用自己的手覆住丹恒的手，凉得多，也稳得多。他的发丝在微风中飘动，即使丹恒在颤抖，他依然是一副宁静的样子，世界缩小到只有他和他。
“我们晚点再谈，”他说。他的眼睛是金色的池水，温柔如同他们相遇的那天。“别担心。”
丹恒的呼吸颤抖着。
景元抬起另一只手，向前伸——然后似乎改变了主意。“星有我的号码。如果你需要我，让她告诉我。我会来的。”
我现在就需要你
，丹恒想，但没有说出口。
他不能以这种方式拖累景元。他不会。
他颤抖地、刻意地呼出一口气。抓住他最后一丝理智，紧紧抓住它，像龙爪一样嵌入它流血的心。慢慢地，他松开了景元的手臂。
姬子扶他进入观景车厢。她和景元又客套了几句，但丹恒不再听了。她的信息素包裹着他，如此不同于他肩上的那种：咖啡、柴火和一丝淡淡的机车油味，既是星穹列车的标志，也是她的标志。
这应该能让他安定下来。星穹列车是安全的，星穹列车是家。
但门一关上，丹恒感受到的只有失落。
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Two days later, Zelda pins him against a tree.
It’s late morning and Link is down by the river again, filling his waterskin before they begin the next leg of their journey. They had overslept, and were leaving their departure later than he would have liked, but it was more than worth it, waking up next to her—curled up on the same bedroll with their limbs tangled together, touching skin-to-skin at every point, her hair golden and tousled in the morning light that filters in through the canvas and peppering soft, drowsy kisses down his neck as she stirs herself from sleep.
She’s wide awake now, though, and kissing him filthily as she pushes her knee between his legs. Link drops the waterskin and utilizes both hands to pull her closer against him, cupping her jaw to tilt her head the way he likes, the other arm wrapping around her to draw her in at the waist. She sighs against his mouth, her thigh pressing up against him, and
that
along with the vivid awareness of her hands sliding down the front of his tunic is almost enough to distract him from the looming threat of the weather causing them further delays. Almost.
“We should get going,” Link murmurs, between kisses. “It looks like it might rain, and we’re headed up a mountain—”
“Oh, hush,” Zelda says dismissively, and sinks to her knees.
Link freezes, then, because this is new. True, he’s already brought her to climax with his hands or mouth so many times he’s beginning to lose count, and she’s always been eager to reciprocate one way or another—but not like this. This feels… dirty. Almost pornographic. Vulgar bordering on obscene.
“You don’t need to do that,” Link says, losing his voice a little as she palms him over his trousers, but she ignores him and pushes up his tunic to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his hipbone. He feels her grin when his breath hitches, and then she pulls away to work at his belt.
“I’d like to try,” she tells him as she gets his trousers open, pulling them down to mid-thigh. “You do it for me—it’s only fair. Hold this, will you?”
She’s pushing his tunic and undershirt up over his abdomen; Link automatically takes the material from her, hand closed into a fist at the base of his sternum to hold it there.
“This is—this is different,” he says, even as his undershorts go the way of his trousers. A sudden rush of heat shoots through him at the appreciative gaze Zelda levels at his crotch, and he twitches a little as she takes him into her hand.
“Different how?” she asks, gently beginning to stroke him to full attention.
“Because,” Link tries, resolve melting with every pass of her fist. “It’ll be messy.”
“I know that,” she says.
“It doesn’t taste good.”
“It was fine the last time I tried it.”
He sucks in a sharp breath at the memory. “Yes, but—not when—not like
this
.”
Zelda quirks an eyebrow, and Link is about to insist,
no, seriously, it doesn’t,
but then she leans in and
licks
him—a long, wet stroke along the underside, from the base of him right to the tip—and the noise he makes is
pathetic
. She glances up at him, looking thoroughly pleased with herself, and waits until he swallows and nods his assent before shuffling forward again, settling more comfortably onto the ground.
“You’ll have to tell me what to do,” she says.
“Right,” Link says weakly, fingers tentatively weaving into her hair.
“Don’t mess up my braids,” she adds, and takes him into her mouth.
He murmurs instructions whenever she needs them, little things like
use your hand
and
watch your teeth
, but otherwise he lets her figure it out on her own. She’s cautious, a little clumsy, and it’s far from perfect but it’s
Zelda
—Zelda on her knees, Zelda watching him carefully through her lashes, Zelda swirling her tongue inexpertly around him and humming when he moans—and it isn’t long at all before she’s found herself a rhythm, her hand and mouth falling into sync, Link’s hips quivering and abdomen tense with the orgasm building low in his belly.
When he chokes out a warning, she just carries on.
“Stop,” he rasps. “Zelda
,
seriously—
stop
.”
Zelda makes a noise, dissenting and impatient, and her eyes flutter closed as she takes him as deep as she can go. It takes all of Link’s self-control not to drag her in closer, his hand releasing her hair to push back his own—but when she opens her eyes and looks up at him again it makes something snap, makes his head fall back and his hips jerk up, needy little sounds catching in his throat as she lets him come in her mouth.
He sinks against the tree when he’s done, out of breath and so blissed out he can’t even find it in him to feel remorseful when Zelda pulls off with a grimace and spits on the grass.
“Told you,” he says, a little dazed, as she snatches up his discarded waterskin. She casts him a glare as she takes a long drink, making a hand gesture that she could only have learned from him, and Link can’t help but laugh.
Zelda fixes her hair and refills the waterskin as he readjusts his clothing, and they head back up to the campsite. She takes his hand somewhere along the way; Link is completely enthralled by it somehow—her fingers laced through his, the warmth of her palm through the leather of his glove, heat spreading through his chest and belly and tingling all the way down to his toes.
He doesn’t release her when they reach the top of the hill, holding fast when she tries to pull away. She looks amused as he draws her in close, and he can feel her smile when he brings their lips together again, leaning into him easily as he kisses her, their clasped hands caught between them with her knuckles pressed to his ribs, and he’s breathless again by the time they break apart.
“Sorry,” Link says, because he thinks he should, wondering if she can feel how hard his heart is beating. “About—you know. In your mouth.”
Zelda flashes him a wide smile. “It’s okay,” she says, and gives his hand a brief squeeze before letting go. “Eat more fresh fruit. I’ll get used to it.”
She walks away to pack up the last of their things. Link stares after her, red-faced and incredulous, probably ready to go another round if they didn’t have a mountain to climb.
“How do you feel about sexual intercourse?”
Zelda is presently half-dangling off the edge of a cliff, so her voice is slightly muffled by the wind. She’s gathering a cluster of flowers she’d excitedly spotted on the way up, and Link—kneeling behind her, his fingers tucked into her belt as a precaution—takes a moment to digest the question. He had been thoroughly enjoying the view of her bent over like this, but now he’s especially glad that she’s facing away from him and unable to see the flush crawling up his neck.
“Pretty good, I guess,” he says.
Zelda goes motionless for a moment, and he gets the feeling that she’s reading much further into that statement than the average person would. When she starts to straighten up, Link tugs at the back of her belt until she’s cleared the cliff edge and properly seated on the ground, clutching a handful of plants. She pulls out a handkerchief and begins separating the buds from the stems.
Link thinks—almost hopes—that’s the end of it, until she says, “So you’ve done it, then.”
It isn’t a question, and his stomach twists unpleasantly. He watches her work for a while before speaking. “Does that bother you?”
Zelda looks up at him, then, her eyes searching his face for a long moment before returning her gaze to her herbs. “I mean, I assumed you had,” she says. “Because you’re very good, you know, with your hands—and your mouth. I imagine that comes with practice.” She glances up at him again and gives him a small smile. “But no, it doesn’t bother me.”
Link ducks his head to hide his reddening face. He’s a little lost as of what to say, unsure whether he should apologize or reassure her somehow—or even if such a transgression requires an apology at all, considering the offense occurred over a century ago—but Zelda spares him the trouble of puzzling out a response by abruptly holding out one of the plants.
“Do you know what this is?” she asks.
Link studies it. “Armoranth, right?”
Zelda nods. She plucks the final bud and places it in her handkerchief with the others, folding it up carefully and tucking it away. Then she stands and scuffs up the dirt with her boot. “The seeds can be ground and boiled into an elixir,” she says. “As long as it’s taken consistently, it’s very effective at preventing conception.”
She drops the stems on the ground. Link watches numbly as she covers them with earth. “Conception,” he echoes.
“Yes,” Zelda affirms, not meeting his eyes, her cheeks tinged pink. “If I start tonight, it should take effect in a few days.”
She resumes the hike without him, leaving Link sitting heavily in the dirt and
reeling
.
Zelda prepares the elixir when they stop to make camp.
Link makes dinner, watching her grind some of the tiny seeds in a mortar and pestle, but he ends up leaving her to it as she boils the water over the fire. She’s always been better at making elixirs than he is, and this feels private, somehow—personal and delicate. Once boiled, the brew is set aside and left to steep, and they sit together while they make short work of the meat and mushroom skewers, Link hyper-aware of the covered billycan sitting at Zelda’s feet.
After they eat, Zelda strains the ground seeds out of the liquid, apprehensively swirling the contents in a flask. Link doesn’t envy her as she drains it with a grimace.
He hands her the waterskin. “How is it?”
She takes a mouthful of water before she speaks. “Bitter,” she says eventually, running her tongue over her teeth in distaste. “Probably better than having to chew them, though, and this method has the least side effects.”
Link frowns in concern. “What kind of side effects?”
Zelda gestures vaguely below her waist. “Dryness.”
“Oh.” He watches her take another swig. “Where did you learn about all this?”
“I had some books on herbal medicine.” She plugs the cap on the waterskin and hands it back to him. “My tutors probably would have confiscated that particular one, had they known.”
Link huffs out a laugh, reaching over to set the waterskin down with the rest of their things, and Zelda leans into his side when he straightens up, closing the meager distance between them. He thinks about holding her hand again, ponders the irony of his anxiety to do so even after having spent the better part of two days with his face between her legs, and he’s still working up the nerve to put his arm around her shoulders when Zelda asks, “What’s it like?”
“Hm?”
“Sex. What’s it like?”
Link clears his throat awkwardly, feeling his face heating up. He had truly never expected to have this conversation with the Princess of Hyrule—but then he had never expected that he’d be spending most of his evenings with her legs wrapped around his neck, either. “It’s... good.”
“I assumed as much,” Zelda says, a little impatiently. “But what does it
feel
like?”
“What—like, physically...?”
“Yes. I mean—” she swivels around to face him properly, expression curious and entirely unabashed. “It must be quite remarkable.”
“Um.” Link shifts uncomfortably, gaze fixed on the fire. “Well. It’s… warm.”
In his periphery, he sees Zelda give an encouraging nod. “And?”
“And, uh. Soft. And, you know—wet, I guess.” He flushes deeper and glances sideways at her. “Please don’t make me use more adjectives.”
Zelda laughs, and Link feels the tension in his neck and shoulders dissolve a little at the sound. The need to apologize still niggles at him slightly, but when she moves into his side again, pressing up close, he feels much more at ease. As she snakes her hand into his lap to lace their fingers together, Link thinks how odd it is—how they’ve been so much closer than this, and wearing so much less, but somehow it doesn’t quite compare to just this, the quiet intimacy of sitting together after sharing a meal, of feeling her contented sigh as she leans into him again.
“Link?” Zelda says softly.
“Yeah?”
“How is it… emotionally? How does it feel?”
Link takes a long breath, just absorbing the warmth of her body next to his. Tries not to think about how, if he held her close enough, listened hard enough, he might be able to hear the pulse of her heartbeat.
He says, “It feels like this.”
Zelda doesn’t move or speak for a moment, then she abruptly pulls her hand from his and stands. The absence of her body heat is so sudden that it’s like being plunged into a cold bath, but it’s nothing in comparison to the icy tendril of panic that roots itself in the pit of his stomach, certain that he’s offended her, that he’s fucked up, that he’s
ruined it—
“Coming to bed?” she asks.
She offers her hand, and relief—warm and glowing and tentative—spreads through his chest. Link doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth, so he just scrambles to his feet.
He takes her outstretched hand again and follows her into the tent.
“I was thinking,” Link says, a full day later, “maybe we should wait.”
They’re camped out overlooking Mount Rozudo for the night, in a quiet, wind-sheltered niche with a hot spring and a few trees. Zelda had taken her second dose of elixir during dinner—blithely informing him that she should be well-protected by the third—before they ventured into the spring to wash off the day’s exertion. It’s late evening now, the two of them taking full advantage of being clean and refreshed, sprawled out in the tent getting sweaty again.
At his words, Zelda, currently in the process of kissing her way down his torso, lifts her head to look at him. There’s a fairy in a bottle strung up on the ceiling support, casting a soft pink glow on her puzzled expression; Link realises how abrupt he must sound, but he’s been thinking about this all day—including the last hour when his mouth was otherwise occupied—and he has a tendency to lose his train of thought whenever she gets her hands on him, so.
“Until we reach an inn,” he clarifies. “Or even a stable—they have private rooms, sometimes.”
Zelda taps a fingertip against his hipbone. “Why?”
“It might—” he gasps here, because she’s firmly but gently cupped him right between his legs, but he pushes through it. “It might be nice.”
She gives him a
look
, and Link deflates a little, turning his gaze to the ceiling, watching the fairy drift peacefully inside the bottle and wondering how he can adequately convey his concerns about deflowering the Princess of Hyrule on the floor of a tent in the middle of nowhere. Eventually, he relents, “You deserve a real bed.”
Zelda makes a thoughtful noise as she resumes her journey down his midsection. Link’s hips unconsciously flinch up when she wraps her hand around him, and he hears her laugh softly as she starts to stroke.
“We’re still bound for Hateno Village, aren’t we?” she asks.
“Yes,” Link replies, head already spinning.
“Don’t you have a house there?”
“Yes, but—”
“So I presume you have a bed.”
She presses a kiss to his lower belly, and Link allows himself to imagine it for a moment—carrying her upstairs, laying her down on a real mattress and pillows, on
his
bed, in
his
home—and is hit with an inexplicable surge of anxiety. “Is that what you want?”
Zelda pauses again, so close that Link can feel her breath on him. “I will have you wherever you consent to take me,” she says steadily, and when she closes her lips around him there’s not much else that he can say, so Link just threads his hands into her hair, trying to ignore the prickle of guilt at the back of his mind, and gives in to the heat of her mouth.
As they’re drifting off to sleep, Zelda commends him for his recent eating habits. Link turns pinker than the fairy hanging from the ceiling and buries his face against her neck.
A noticeable tension sets in after Zelda takes her third elixir.
They’ve just spent all day making their way down Meda Mountain, and have stopped for the night in a small forested area with a water source nearby. They would rejoin the road on Marblod Plain in the morning, and would reach Hateno by nightfall if they kept up a brisk walk, where they would then, presumably, consummate their… whatever this is.
Link has been worrying himself sick about it all day.
He’s currently in the middle of preparing a creamy vegetable soup for dinner in the hopes of settling his stomach; the anxious niggling had shifted to full-blown queasiness ever since the road ahead came into view. Zelda seems unconcerned as she does her own thing, busy making notes in her journal and browsing through the Sheikah Slate, the light from the screen reflected in her eyes an odd reminder of the night she had made the uncomfortable discovery that brought them to this point. It’s strange to think about; it feels like a lot of time has passed since the day she followed him down to the river. And yet somehow simultaneously very little time at all.
For a while there’s nothing but the bubbling of the cooking pot and the crackling of the fire, then Zelda says, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Link swallows. Thinks,
here we go
. “About what?”
“About why you’re so nervous.”
When he doesn’t respond immediately, Zelda sets the Slate aside and stands to face him, and Link blows out a sigh, annoyed at his own transparency. Though
nervous
doesn’t quite encompass the gravity of what he’s feeling, it’s... close enough. “Why would I not be?”
Zelda shrugs a little. “Because you’ve done it before.”
“Not in… a long time.” Link keeps his eyes fixed determinedly on the soup. “And not with you.”
“Are you afraid of hurting me?” she asks bluntly. “Link, I’ve been riding horses my entire life—”
“That’s—” he blanches a little, struck with a fresh wave of panic at the thought, but continues, “That’s not it.”
She takes a second to absorb this, then tentatively lays a hand on his arm. “Do you not want to have sex with me?”
Link closes his eyes. Breathes out, slowly, through his nose. “Of course I want to.”
Until now, these words have gone unspoken but implicit. This is the first time either of them have said it without the veil of euphemism, and Link feels the weight of the statement settle on them both as he lets his eyes open, gaze drifting skyward. “It’s just—” he gestures helplessly. “You don’t think it’s too soon?”
The silence feels somehow abrupt this time, Zelda’s touch suddenly heavy. Link forces himself to look at her, finding her staring at him, wide-eyed, expression so unreadable that for a moment he isn’t sure if she’s going to kiss him or hit him, but then she just gives an incredulous laugh.
“Too soon,” she says. “One hundred years and you think it’s
too soon
.”
The heat from her hand slowly crawls up his arm, spreading through his chest as her words sink in. There’s something soft and affectionate in her eyes and it hurts a little to look at, so Link just takes a shaky breath and leans in—not to kiss her, just touching his forehead to hers, closing his eyes again just to feel her there—finding her hand in the firelight and threading their fingers together.
“Did you still think this was some kind of practical anatomy lesson?” she murmurs.
Link allows himself a smile. “Maybe.”
He isn’t sure how long it is they stand there with their heads bent together, but eventually Zelda squeezes his hand and they step apart. They sit together to eat, bodies pressed close from shoulder to knee, and retire to the tent afterwards, stripped down to their underthings but too exhausted to do anything other than sleep.
Link wakes up in the night with Zelda curled up behind him, her arm thrown over his waist and her breath warming the back of his neck—and though the anxiety doesn’t completely recede, it does soften a little, if only slightly.
They reach Hateno just as the sun has begun to set, and Link is on the verge of a meltdown.
His nausea had only increased in intensity the closer they got to the village, and even Zelda becomes uncharacteristically quiet as they cross the bridge to the house. She dusts a little and comments on his interesting choices in home decor while Link makes dinner, and then they eat in relative silence, facing each other across the small dining table. Zelda rises first to clear their plates, and sets about preparing her elixir for the night, nonchalantly enquiring after a bath.
“Sure,” Link says, watching her strain the elixir into a flask. “Easy. No problem.”
He shows her the bathhouse and continues down to the pond to hyperventilate.
He spends an inordinate amount of time sitting in the water with his face in his hands, but eventually drags himself inside again. Zelda isn’t back yet, so he heads up to the loft to change into clean undershorts and light the lamp on the nightstand, haphazardly tidying the sleeping space and trying to control his breathing. He’s just replaced the linens and turned down the bed when he hears her footsteps on the stairs.
He turns around, to tell her that they don’t have to do this—they don’t even have to share a bed, they don’t have to do
anything
if she’s changed her mind—but the words die in his throat.
It’s warm in the house but it seems stifling suddenly, the air in the loft grown heavy and hot as Zelda stands completely bare at the top of the stairs. She’s lightly flushed, hair damp and skin still dewy from her bath, and as Link meets her eyes, her gaze soft and open and vulnerable, it occurs to him that while he’s seen her without her clothes on before, he never thought he’d see her looking quite so
naked.
Zelda moves first, but they meet each other halfway.
There’s a quiet urgency about it when their lips come together, the way Zelda’s hands thread into his hair and Link pulls her in at the waist to close the distance. It’s like they’ve never kissed before, somehow, just the novelty of kissing her in this context making everything feel new, and while he’d vaguely registered stumbling towards the bed, it doesn’t properly dawn on him until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and Zelda pushes him down.
“Now?” he asks, breathless, as she climbs astride him.
“Now,” Zelda says, and brings their lips together again.
Link has precisely zero objections to her being on top, and when she grinds down against his lap his toes actually curl. His hands are shaking but he can’t seem to stop touching her, and as he pulls her hips down to better push into the wetness he can already feel through his shorts, Zelda breaks the kiss with a gasp. She mumbles, “Off, take them off,” tugging at his waistband and rising up just enough to give him room, and then they’re gone, there’s nothing left to separate them, just warmth and skin and
her
.
She immediately rocks down, dragging herself wetly along the length of him, and Link almost loses it. “
Fuck
.”
Zelda gives a fluttering laugh, straightening up slightly to watch him. She does it again, both of them shivering at the friction as she moves, her voice stuttering as she speaks. “It’s good, right?”
“Fuck,” Link repeats weakly, hands roaming mindlessly over her sides, barely grasping at the final shreds of his dignity. “Gods, Zelda—you have
no idea
.”
She leans down to kiss him again, still moving steadily against him all the while, and Link can only cling to her uselessly and groan against her mouth. She’s so slick and hot he could easily get off from this alone, but Zelda, not one for wasting time, quickly breaks the kiss and shifts back a little to reach down between them—and it’s somehow only then it hits him that this is
really
happening.
“Wait, wait,” Link says, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. It may have been a while, and she may have rendered him completely inept, but he’s done this enough times to know she’s probably rushing it. “Let me—I should do something—”
“Unnecessary,” Zelda says, her palm planted on his chest to steady herself as she guides him to her. “Why do you think I was in the bath for so long?”
And there’s… absolutely nothing he can say to that, so Link just rests his hand on the curve of her hip and doesn’t take his eyes off her face. She sinks down on him slowly, inhaling sharply at the stretch, brows pinched together and eyes slipping closed, lowering herself until she’s flush against his lap and he’s completely buried inside her.
Link is barely breathing. He swallows thickly, fighting every instinct that’s telling him to move, and reaches up, trembling, to brush her hair behind her ear. “You okay?”
Zelda nods hastily. “Yes, I just—I didn’t account for—” she shifts a little and chokes on a breath, eyes snapping up to his face. “Just—show me, show me how.”
The warmth and closeness of being inside her is dizzying; Link feels lightheaded as he pushes himself up on one arm. “Like this,” he murmurs, snaking his free hand around her back to splay his fingers at the base of her spine. “Now, just—”
He gently encourages her to roll her hips forward, and her mouth goes slack. “
Oh
.”
Link tries to laugh but it sticks in his throat. “Good?”
“
Good
,” Zelda says, and starts to move.
There’s no words now—just quiet breaths amongst the soft shifting sounds of their bodies as they rock together in a slow grind. Her motions are still tentative, unhurried and unsure, but it’s close, and it’s easy, and it’s
her
so it’s
perfect
, and when Link rolls his hips up, searching for that spot inside her that makes her whine, her head falls back on a moan. He does it again and again, gasping open-mouthed against her throat, and though his movements are slight it’s apparently enough, because Zelda is already making those sharp, breathy noises that mean she’s almost there.
“Yes,” she whispers urgently, hands fisting in his hair, “almost—Gods,
Link
—
hold me—
”
Link wraps both arms around her and buries his face against her neck, mindlessly murmuring encouragement as she comes apart around him. She holds him to her, keening softly into his ear as he moans and rocks them both through it, and though Link has felt her come before, he realises now he’s never known the true scope of it—how tight she becomes as she rides it out, lost to the pulse of climax and the rush of heat inside her.
He doesn’t release her as she gradually slows, breathing softly together as they still.
For a moment, all she can do is pant and tremble against his shoulder, but then she draws back to kiss him and everything speeds up again. Their mouths are hot and clumsy as Link falls back on the bed, wordless little whimpers spilling from their joined lips, and when he pulls her down against his body she makes this
sound
—rising and desperate, so he rolls them until she’s pressed to the mattress, drawing her leg up high on his hip, and unthinkingly drives into her as deep as he can go.
Zelda lets out a strangled gasp, clutching his upper arms. “
Link
.”
“Fuck, sorry—I’m sorry,” Link stutters, immediately shifting back, taking his weight off her and trying to withdraw—but she holds fast, crossing her ankles at his lower back to keep him there.
“No, no—stay,” she says quickly. “
Stay
. I just need a minute.”
They're still for a moment, both breathing hard, Zelda looking up at him while Link gazes down. He takes in her golden hair fanned out over the blankets, flushed and warm in the dim light of the loft with her chest still heaving from orgasm, and as she reaches up to brush the hair from his eyes something fractures inside him, burning like broken glass in his throat.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “For wanting to wait. I’m really glad we’re here.”
Link’s eyes flutter closed as his forehead falls against hers. He feels her palms move over his jaw, thumbs just tracing his cheeks, and he exhales slowly in relief. “Me too.”
He doesn’t move for a long time, just letting himself feel the gentle pulse of her body and how her hands cradle his face, but then Zelda tilts her hips, shifting enticingly against him
,
and Link sucks in a breath, hyper-aware of the contact. “Do you—do you want to keep going?”
“Yes,” she whispers, and threads her hands into his hair to pull him down against her. “Please,
yes
.”
Link starts controlled, rocking into her slowly, feeling it in every nerve whenever she tightens and flexes. She moves with him, arching when he pulls her hips up to push into that spot, and he chases her lips to taste every whimper and whine, moaning desperately against her mouth as his resolve begins to slip. He wants to kiss her for longer but he keeps losing his breath, so he draws back to watch her—to see the tendons going tight in her neck, the light sheen of exertion decorating her chest, and when Zelda meets his eyes again there’s something
wild
there, hotter than the sting of her nails against his scalp as she drags him down by the hair, sets her mouth against his ear and hisses, “
Fuck me
.”
Something primal threatens to tear out of Link’s chest as he pushes Zelda against the bed, his motions steady and hard until she’s crying out with every thrust. She whispers not to stop so he just fucks her faster, grasping and clinging with an agonized moan. She’s making those noises again, only louder and more frantic, and as the climax hits her—pulsing and tight and almost sobbing his name—Link just drives in, grinding down, consumed by thoughts of
yes, yes, yes
and
mine, mine, mine
and
love, love, love—
Link jerks back, gasping, suddenly overcome by the realization and the desperate need to tell her
.
“Zelda,” he chokes, hips stuttering, “
Zelda,
I—”
“I know,” she breathes, her trembling hands cradling his face again, “Link,
I know
,” and her eyes are warm and bright and tender and Link just—
He presses forward, burying his moan against her neck, and comes so hard he cries.
Later—after Link has dried his eyes, after they’ve tumbled apart to lie on their backs and their breathing is filling the silence—Zelda finds his hand, laces their fingers together, and says, “I love you too.”
They sleep bare that night, safe in his home in Hateno, and Link is woken by the light of early morning shining through the windows and a warm, pleasant weight in his lap. Zelda is sitting atop him when he opens his eyes, blankets pooled at her hips and Sheikah Slate in her hands, and Link is perfectly content in just laying there for a moment, absorbing the comfort and correctness of waking up with her in his bed—until he hears the soft
click
from the Slate.
Link frowns, blinking up at her blearily as she reaches over to set the Slate on the nightstand. “Why?”
“Just immortalizing the memory,” Zelda says casually, leaning down to kiss him, and as her lips brush his she adds, “And the lighting is nice.”
Link just laughs, rolling them over until she’s laid out on her back, and pins her hips to the mattress.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
When Gray woke up in his own bed, there was no sign of Natsu. Still, unlike the previous morning, he had no doubt that last night really happened. He touched a divot in the pillow beside him and smiled to himself.
Who in a million years would have thought he and Natsu would become a couple? It still felt unreal, but Gray was glad it had happened. He felt that Natsu needed someone like him, a person who could handle his complexities and keep his secrets. He definitely needed someone like Natsu, who could handle some sadistic pain play and still want more. Gray was usually too scared to do that with a girl, but he knew he could not hurt Natsu too badly. Not physically, at least.
Mentally … well, that was something they still had to work out. Both of them.
As Gray got up and stretched, he thought about the previous night. After they left the love hotel, Natsu took him out for ice cream, although it was after midnight. They had stayed pretty much silent the whole time, with nervousness tingling the air between them. In the midst of that awkwardness, Natsu had reached across the table and held Gray's hand. It was a move only lovers did. The waitress saw, and Gray heard her giggle. It made him blush, but Natsu merely squeezed his cold fingers even tighter, as if to tell Gray that he did not care if people thought it was weird.
On the walk home, Natsu had suggested an alternate route. They had walked along one of the canals that ran through Magnolia, through deserted streets lit by the moon and streetlights. They held hands most of the time, but Natsu always let go just seconds before someone came by, usually to scratch his scalp or rub out his neck. After the fifth time scratching his pink hair, Gray guessed Natsu was sniffing out other people, keeping their little intimate touches a secret. That was oddly sweet of him.
Then Natsu walked Gray home, they stripped to their underwear, and Natsu cuddled Gray throughout the night. The ice wizard had woken up a few times, stifled by the heat pressed up against him, only to feel Natsu's hold tighten possessively. Each time, it made him smile, relax, and he could drift off to sleep once again.
Now he was alone. He guessed Natsu woke up early and went to check on Happy, maybe make the Exceed some breakfast. He still felt the lingering heat in the bedroom, which was much warmer than the rest of his cold home. As Gray made breakfast, he hoped Natsu was okay. Not just physically—although belting him would probably hurt for a day or two—but mentally. Natsu had issues, and as much as Gray wanted to know what he was dealing with, if Natsu was not ready to tell him, he had to respect that.
Still, as he munched his cereal, he stared off and let the previous nights' events run through his head. The last two days were so surreal. He almost could not believe it had happened.
After all, this was
Natsu
. They were
rivals
. He never would have thought Natsu would be a masochist, let alone submissive.
A part of him still wondered if this was all one huge, elaborate prank, but Natsu would never let Gray hit him with a belt if it was a joke. Plus the panic attack Natsu had was way too real. It almost seemed like another person, but the anger he showed for a brief moment was totally him. That face when he snarled "Release me, you sick bastard" was definitely the look Natsu gave to enemies.
Which made the whole thing even more surreal. Natsu could go from whimpering to growling, from timid to voracious, and from cutely innocent to warmly romantic, all in the blink of an eye. It was like he had two personalities.
Considering the rest of his mental issues, Gray would not be the least bit surprised if that might also be the case. Not that Natsu had two completely different personalities and one did not know what the other was doing. Just that there was normal Natsu, and then there was
bedroom-Natsu
. In the bedroom, Natsu had issues that made him need to be suppressed, tied up, confined, and he was so naive that he had to be told what to do. Outside of the bedroom, Natsu was … well, Natsu. A surprisingly romantic guy, but still a bit immature, loyal and watchful, argumentative and stubborn, playful and innocent.
Gray knew he faced a challenge sorting out a guy this complex, but if the past couple days were any indication, he figured his efforts would be worth it if he could do this level of bondage with Natsu.
Gray washed up, dressed, and headed to the guild. Part of him felt a slight dread about how he and Natsu would face one another after a night like that. Two people did not wildly fuck one another and then simply wave hello with a casual smile the next day. He also wondered if anyone saw them when they were on their date. Natsu had a point about keeping things secret. Gray still had scratch marks on his chest from where Natsu clawed him in the shower.
God, that had been hot!
Gray forced himself not to think about that because he would only get aroused.
"Gray-sama."
And there went his boner.
He cringed as Juvia bounced up and grabbed his arm. Seriously, how many times did he have to tell this woman that he was not interested?
"Gray-sama, Juvia wants to go on a mission."
"Then go on one," he replied frigidly.
"Juvia wants to take a hard one."
"You're strong. You can handle it."
She pouted stubbornly and told him outright, "Juvia wants to go on a mission with Gray-sama."
"Not interested." He swiftly pulled away from her grip, letting her take his shirt along with her. Now missing his top, he walked over to the bar. "Hey, Mira. Something cold to drink."
"Gray, what happened? Did you fight a vicious beast?"
"Huh?" He looked down and saw the scratch marks. He let out a light curse and ran back over to Juvia. Her eyes lit up with hopefulness; however, he yanked his shirt away from her hands and tugged it back on. Stupid flame-brain, marking him like that!
Lucy walked in while he was still buttoning his shirt. Gray eyed her, thinking back a couple nights. Natsu had first gone to Lucy's place when he had that nightmare. If Loke had not been with her, apparently busy in an act that would make Natsu horny—and Gray could guess what that meant—then Natsu never would have gone to Gray's home that night, and he would not have been in that sort of mood. Gray might have to thank Loke some day.
"Good morning, Gray," she called out cheerfully.
Behind him, he heard Juvia hiss, "Love rival!"
"Hey, Lucy," Gray said with a placid smile. "Have you been busy?"
She blushed, and Juvia seethed, and chanting like a curse,
Love rival, love rival.
"Busy, yeah," Lucy muttered. "I've been … training. Extensively."
"Cool. Maybe you can call Loke out and we can spar." He loved how that blush went crimson at the mention of Loke's name. Those two were totally banging all weekend.
"Oh, I guess so, but not today. I … um … that is…"
"Ah, you kept him busy … with training," Gray said, and he watched as the crimson on her face went almost maroon.
Lucy laughed nervously. "Yes, w-with training."
Mira looked over at them. "Do you need an iced drink, Lucy? You're looking feverish. I hope you're not coming down with whatever Natsu has."
Gray jolted at that, left behind Juvia's seething jealousy, and hurried to the bar. "What Natsu has?" he repeated. "What's wrong with him?"
"I'm not sure, really," said Mira. "Happy came here early this morning and said Natsu was feverish, and he wanted some hot soup. He said Natsu was out for two nights in a row. I wonder if he's sneaking out to see a girlfriend."
Lucy laughed at that. "Natsu, with a girlfriend? That's impossible."
"Oh?" Mira asked slyly. "Are you jealous, Lucy?"
"Not in the slightest."
Gray left their conversation and rushed out of the guild. Natsu was sick? Why didn't he wake Gray up, if he was feeling ill? Or had he sneaked away so he would not bother Gray with his illness?
That sounded like Natsu, all right. He hated to show any sort of weakness.
Gray made a stop at the store. Natsu would need tea, and probably medicine for a fever, and…
"Ah shit," he muttered as something dawned on him. An old lady passing by him in the store aisle smacked her umbrella across Gray's head for cussing. He flinched and rubbed out the hit. "Sorry, ma'am." He hurried on and made sure not to cuss in public again, although now his mind was whirling.
He had forced Natsu to hold his bladder to the point of wetting himself. There was a danger in that sort of play. A person could easily get a bladder infection if they were not properly hydrated. He bought a few extra items in case that was the issue. Then he rushed out of town and into the woods where Natsu and Happy lived together.
When he knocked on the door to their rickety house, Happy answered.
"Whoa, Gray! Why are you here? Natsu is sick; he can't fight with you."
"I heard. I brought some stuff that might help."
"Oh." Happy looked confused by the act of kindness. "Well, we just ran out of toilet paper and I was about to go to the store. Don't fight with Natsu. He's really feverish and can barely get out of bed. Do you know where Natsu was last night?"
"You could ask him," Gray said cautiously.
"I did, and he just said he was out, but he was gone all night, and he was gone most of the previous night too, and he won't say where, and he's being really secretive."
"How should I know what that flame-brain does?" Gray grumbled to get out of answering.
"Well, just watch over things. There's a kettle on the stove if he needs something to drink." Happy took a pouch of money and flew off toward town.
Gray put the bag of goods in the kitchen and walked over to Natsu's bedroom. When he entered, the pink-haired Dragon Slayer was curled up in bed. Natsu rolled over, and his eyes widened at seeing Gray standing there. Then they narrowed spitefully.
"Why are you here?" he mumbled.
Gray ignored the cranky tone. "I heard you were sick."
Natsu glared in accusation. "Yeah, and it's probably
your
fault."
Gray froze as the scathing words pierced his chest. With a lump in his throat, he dropped his head. "Yeah, you're probably right," he admitted. "Which is why I'm here. It's my duty to take care of you."
"Duty?" Natsu questioned.
Gray nodded with solemn determination. "As a Dominant, it's my duty to take care of my Submissive."
Natsu stared at him for a long, tense moment before practically snarling, "Who the hell are you calling
submissive
?"
Those furious words took Gray by surprise. Then he realized Natsu probably did not know the proper terminology. "Well, that's what it's called. You're … you know…"
"No, I'm not. I'm not submissive to anyone, least of all
you
."
Gray looked shocked. "But … but that's how it works. You … we…"
"We're not that way at all, asshole."
Gray paused as he realized everything he had mentally conceived about their relationship was not at all what Natsu also thought. Gray assumed they were in normal dominant/submissive roles, yet he realized Natsu was not the sort who would want that. Tied up, maybe some pain, but…
Had he ever actually acted submissive?
"Shit," he whispered, running his hand through his hair as he realized his ideas had all been one-sided. "So, how do you want this relationship to work?"
Natsu pulled the blankets up to his chin. "I don't know. Is Happy here?"
"He left to the store."
Natsu looked a little relieved. He did not want to discuss these sorts of things with Happy around. "I need to be … tied up and … and forced," he said so quietly, Gray had to come closer just to hear him, "but I'm not submissive, all right? I don't want to be submissive, not to you."
Gray sat on the edge of the bed. "So … what? Just a masochist?"
Natsu sank even deeper into the blankets. Discussing this in the daylight was way too embarrassing. "Yeah, I guess that's what you'd call it."
"Okay. So … um … how do you want to … uh…"
"What's wrong?" Natsu asked, confused by the frustrated expressions on Gray's face.
"I'm trying to figure this out," Gray said a little snappishly.
"Does it need names? Do you have to title everything, label exactly what we have here? I don't want to be labeled, or feel like I have to fit into a category. I'm just gonna do whatever the hell I want, okay? And one thing I won't do is be a mewling, subservient slave to you. Like hell I'd do that!"
Gray tried to process this, rearranging his mental picture of their relationship. Natsu had a point. He had rushed forward and labeled Natsu:
submissive masochist.
It made things nice and neat, a textbook BDSM relationship, but in real life, things rarely worked that easily.
"So, you don't want me to order you around?"
Natsu snapped peevishly. "I'm not gonna listen to your orders. I mean, if you suggest we try something … I'm not that experienced, so if you have a suggestion, that's fine, but I won't obey everything you tell me to do."
"So, it's okay if I order you to do some stuff, right? If it'll help us with whatever we're doing that night?"
"Well, yeah, I guess," Natsu mumbled. "I wouldn't know how to do this kinky crap you're into." Natsu watched as Gray rubbed his chin with a furrowed brow. The Dragon Slayer chuckled and shook his head. "You're still trying to organize this into a nice, neat, perfect little category, Gray. We don't need to be categorized. Let's just be
us
. You don't have a role to fulfill. There is no dominant and submissive. I mean, I'm a masochist, and you're obviously a sadist, and that works for both of us, but … you know, I might want to hurt you, bite you, or scratch you. I won't limit myself to a
role
I have to play. I may want you to order me around, just for fun, but I won't
always
obey you. I'm not going to blindly follow you around like a puppy, obeying all your rules and orders. I don't want that. I want to just be us. Okay?" he pleaded, rubbing Gray's arm. "Let's just be lovers."
Gray looked down at those hot fingers and chuckled softly. "Lovers, huh?"
"Well, yeah. That's what we are, right? Let's just be us."
Gray did not mind the sound of that one bit. Just lovers. What a wonderful category to be in! "I'm still gonna take care of you."
Natsu sighed and leaned back on his pillow. "Fine, whatever. If you feel guilty for making me sick, then take responsibility."
"Guilty," Gray mused. That was what it boiled down to. He felt guilty for making Natsu sick. "I shouldn't have pushed you so hard last night."
Natsu glared, and then looked away. "Yeah, maybe you shouldn't have."
Gray turned to him in horror. "Wh-What?"
"I'm serious. That was probably too much. At least for the first time. I'm not saying I hated it, but…" Natsu's face contorted with embarrassment mixed with anguish. "Can we … slow it down a little? Ease me into these kinks of yours, Gray. I'm not used to this. Hell, two days ago I was a virgin."
Gray's eyes widened. "You really were a virgin?"
"Yeah. What'd you think?"
"Well, I thought you were at first, but then…" His voice faded away.
"Then, what?"
Gray thought about everything Natsu had told him about his past, all the horrible things he had considered might have occurred during that mysterious, torturous time that twisted the Dragon Slayer into someone who could not trust his own desires.
"Nothing, just … it's nothing…"
Natsu stared hard, trying to decipher him. "Graaaaay…"
"Nothing! I just wasn't sure. I mean … sheesh," he whispered, running his fingers through his hair.
"Gray, you're hiding something."
Suddenly, the ice wizard snapped, "No,
you're
the one hiding something." He caught himself too late and saw the wide eyes on Natsu's face. "Sorry. I'm not gonna make you tell me. I'm better than that."
Natsu rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. "Oh God, it's about that?"
"Well, yeah," he shouted. "Natsu, I … I…"
He growled and looked away. He wanted to say
I love you
but he was unsure if he could really say it. He was not even sure if that was the right emotion, and to say something like that, Gray wanted to be sure first.
"I'm worried about you, okay? I care for you, and I don't want to see you hurt. Yeah, I'm curious. It's affecting
us
. But … I won't force you to say anything. It was probably traumatic, right?"
Natsu gave a weak shrug. "Guess so."
"I can tell. So I won't force you to say anything. You can keep it a secret, but I'm still worried. I don't know when I might say something wrong, set you off, and … and I don't ever want to do that to you again. I want things to be good between us, I want us to have fun, and I'm seriously worried about you."
He saw the guilt in Natsu's face. It was obvious he did not want to talk about it, but by the tears gathering in Natsu's eyes, he realized that the Dragon Slayer felt deeply guilty for keeping it a secret.
"Hey, come here." He pulled Natsu into his arms, hugging him. "It's all right."
"You said it's affecting
us
."
"No, I … I mean … oh shit, I didn't mean it that way. I don't want to pressure you."
Natsu turned his face away as he scowled.
"Hey," Gray said lightly, tugging that stubborn chin. "Don't look away. Come on, give me a kiss. Just a kiss."
Natsu arched an eyebrow as he glanced over. "Just a kiss? You mean we can
just
kiss?"
"The hell are you talking about? Of course we can just kiss. Unless you don't want to," he said, feeling a little uncertain.
Natsu finally looked back over, and his face softened. His hand reached up, and he caressed Gray's worried face. "No, I want to," he whispered, and he leaned in slowly. "Just a kiss."
Gray felt those burning lips brush against his. Then Natsu's fingers threaded through his black hair, and he gripped a little tighter, pulling at the strands until Gray gasped softly. Natsu took that opportunity to slip his tongue past those cold lips and heat that mouth with his own scalding breath.
Gray moaned at the domineering kiss. This must be what Natsu meant. During sex itself, he needed to be tied up, but in moments of romance, Natsu tended to take the lead role. Gray realized, he did not really mind. He was bad at the whole concept of romancing someone. He was more used to picking up a person at a pub, buying them a few drinks, and getting what he needed out of them, maybe a week or two of treating the person to dinners and movies, but when it came to actual romance, he really was a novice.
So he let Natsu kiss him, hold him, and that heat utterly melted Gray's icy shell.
"Mmm, your lips are always so hot," he moaned.
Natsu leaned back a bit and smirked. "And your mouth is always refreshing, like mouthwash."
That made Gray laugh. He stroked Natsu's face, but it was hot, so much hotter than usual. Worried, he felt the Dragon Slayer's forehead.
"Sheesh, you're burning up. How do you feel?"
"Honestly?" Natsu flopped back down onto the bed. "I've got blood in my piss."
Gray flinched. "Oh God!" He didn't realize it was that bad already.
"Yeah, burns like crazy when I pee, and for it to burn me, you know it's gotta be bad." He twisted around as the aching sensation began to return. "I keep feeling like I need to pee, but then I don't have to. It's annoying."
"Rest for a few days," Gray ordered. "I'm seriously going to take care of you. I want to be there for you and … and…" Gray looked away with guilt. "I'm so sorry, Natsu. I didn't think it'd get that bad. I'm … really sorry." He firmed up a bit. "Next time we do this, I'll prepare in advance, make sure you're hydrated. And drink lots of water now," he insisted. "You need to flush this out of you before it hits your kidneys."
Natsu grumbled, "If I drink more, I pee more, and peeing burns."
"You need to drink," Gray insisted. Then he slumped down and ran his fingers through his hair in anguish. "I'm … sorry. I'm really sorry I made you sick."
"Hey," Natsu laughed, "a little bladder infection won't kill me."
"But you're in pain, and not a pain I want you to feel." Gray rubbed Natsu's arm and felt the fever under the skin. "Your body is burning up. I want to take care of you. Can I do that much?"
Natsu shrugged. "Yeah, if you wanna take care of me when I'm sick, that's fine." He blushed a bit, but then felt anger at how he was reacting. "Ya know, I'm starting to feel like some damn
uke
, and I really don't want that."
Gray chuckled. "But you are the
uke
."
Natsu glared at him. "No, I'm not."
"Yeah you are. You're the bottom."
"That doesn't mean anything. An
uke
is all doe-eyed and whimpering. Like hell I'd be that!"
"Okay," Gray said playfully. "Then what are you?"
"I told you, I'm not anything. No categories. No
seme
, no
uke
, no dominant and submissive … nothing. The only thing I do sorta fit is being a bit of a masochist, but I'm a sadist in my own way. I mean, I do like to bite you."
Gray had to laugh at that. "Yeah, and you bite pretty damn hard."
Natsu gazed at where he had bitten, and he caressed the purplish-red bruise. "You still have a mark on your neck."
"You have one too," Gray pointed out. "It's starting to fade, though. Before it fades completely, I want this infection to be healed up. I want to do more to you. I want to put a mark back on your neck."
Despite the fever, Natsu felt a chill shivering over his skin. "I like the idea of hiding it with my scarf. I also like some of the ideas we came up with last night." He unconsciously licked his lips as he thought about that.
"Oh, talking about that, I found my list, the whole list, not simply what I came up with from memory, and I have a few more questions."
Natsu rolled his eyes and collapsed back onto the pillows. "Oh God, the Checklist of Fucking?"
"Yeeeees," Gray teased. "First, something I forgot, but it occurred to me later: what do you think of roleplaying master and slave?"
Natsu stared hard at him, silent, his eyes narrow, and Gray got a chill from the fierceness in those squint eyes. It took half a minute before Natsu finally snarled, "What … the … hell?"
The flames that flickered on the Dragon Slayer's skin surprised Gray. "It's when you—"
"No!" Natsu shouted in outrage. "I won't be someone's slave. I … I won't…" His voice dropped to a whisper. "I won't do that."
"See, this is why we need a list. I need to know what I can and can't do. I realized when I said something about
sex slave
last night, it seemed like a bad idea to you, so that's why I'm asking."
Natsu shouted, "Do you mean you're psychoanalyzing me while we're having sex?"
"I need to know what makes you tick, what works and what doesn't. I need to remember this stuff so I don't mess up. I … I don't want to mess up with you, Natsu. I … I wanna…" He clenched his fists and turned away. "Goddammit."
"You wanna what?"
"I want this to work."
"Why?"
"What do you mean, why?" Gray shouted.
"Why?" Natsu demanded.
"Because!" He stared at that stubborn face. "I … care about you."
"Care about me?"
"Yeah!" Gray yelled in exasperation.
Natsu thought about that, and how he said it. "Do you love me?"
Now Gray looked hesitant. He pulled back a little as a shiver prickled over his skin.
"I wanna know," Natsu insisted. "I've said it already."
"Natsu, I told you." He turned his head aside and muttered, "It's … not easy for me to say things like that."
"See, now I need to psychoanalyze
you
."
"Why the hell do you need to do that?"
"Because I'm curious. You obviously have an issue with falling in love. I want to know why. Did something happen in your past, something you're not telling me, some secret?"
"Natsu…" Gray warned.
"I wanna know," the Dragon Slayer insisted stubbornly.
Gray stared into the corner of the room. "You wanna know, huh?"
"Yeah. I mean, that is to say, if you're okay telling me. If you're not, I totally understand, but—"
"Okay, fine!" Gray shouted. "It's not really a secret, I guess, and yeah, it's something from my past." He stood up and stomped over to the window, glaring out at the mocking sunshine. "Who was the first person you ever said
I love you
to?"
Natsu's brow creased. "Do you mean romantically or…?"
"Just saying the words. Saying
I love you
." He flinched to say it, even like this.
"I dunno. Probably my real parents. I don't really remember that far back."
"And they're gone, right? Who was the next person you told?"
"Igneel. I used to tell him I loved him all the time."
"And he left you too, right?"
"Hey!" Natsu shouted in anger.
"Anyone else? After Igneel, who was the next person you told?"
"I have no idea. Probably Happy. No, maybe Lisanna. Or possibly that old lady who found me when Igneel vanished."
Gray ground his teeth together. "Every person who I've ever said
I love you
to them … has either died or is no longer around. Every … fucking … one of them," he shouted. "So if I'm just a
little
hesitant
about saying those words, I think I have a damn good reason."
"Whoa, wait," Natsu cried out. "All of your lovers died?"
"No! Because I don't say…" He cut the words off. "I don't say
those words
anymore. I said them every night to my parents. They died! I used to say it to my childhood friends. They all died! I said it to my second grade teacher who was my first crush. A week later, I saw her broken body during Deliora's attack." He broke into tears. "I said it to … to Ur. Now she's gone too." He snuffled up the tears and angrily wiped his eyes. "That was the last time I said it. That was the last time I ever told anyone
I love you
. Because…" He clenched his fists until his fingernails threatened to break skin. "I'm … scared. Okay? Every time I say it, every time I
feel
it, that person gets taken away. So I don't fall in love. I just … I can't."
"Sheesh, Gray. That happened
years
ago."
Gray gave a soft sigh. "So?"
"So!" Natsu cried out. Then he realized, he really had no right to criticize Gray about obsessing over an incident in the distant past. "Okay," he sighed in resignation. "I guess I can understand. You're just worried about me, right?"
"Yeah," Gray whispered, and he glanced back over to the bed. "I … I don't want to say it and lose you."
"That's superstitious."
"Fine. So it is. So I'm superstitious." He reined back his anger. "Look, I might say it someday, but … I'm scared at the moment. I really don't want to lose you, and I…" He let out a heavy sigh. "I care for you."
Natsu considered his words. "Is that your way of saying
I love you
without actually saying it?"
"Maybe."
"Okay. Just say it another way, if you're superstitious. Say
I care for you
. That's enough for me. I'll know what you mean."
Natsu reached a hand out with a beckoning smile. Gray sighed in happiness, walked back to the bed, took that hand, and kissed the knuckles. He felt blessed, but also scared. If he were to lose someone like Natsu…
No, Natsu was strong. He had trust that Natsu would fight this weird curse. Until the time when he felt brave enough to chance it, at least he could say:
"I care for you, Natsu."
The Dragon Slayer gave me a warm, happy smile. "I love you too."
The two stared into one another's eyes for a few sentimental seconds.
"We sound like idiots," Gray pointed out.
Natsu laughed happily. "So? Idiots in looooove," he crooned.
Gray rolled his eyes. "Shit…"
"Come on," he sang tauntingly. "Say
I care for you
."
"You make us sound like one of those stupid-couples." Gray's lips tweaked up. "You are cute, though."
Natsu glared hard. "Shut the hell up."
Gray flinched. "Oh God, I'm so sorry, I forgot you hate that. I'm sorry, I'm seriously sorry. I'll have to remember that. See! We're still figuring each other out."
"Yeah, I guess so." Natsu relaxed again. A stupid-couple figuring one another out! No categories, no roles, just foolish lovers. It was a nice category to be in.
"Well," Gray sighed, hefting up to his feet like some old man. "I'll make you some soup. I also bought some cranberry juice. That should help."
"Cranberry juice?"
"Yeah, it heals bladder infections."
"And you know this … how?"
Gray blushed crimson. "I might have had one or two."
"Because of your … thing? Your peeing fetish."
"Uh … y-yeah, because of that."
Natsu accused in anger, "Which means you knew this could happen to me."
Gray flinched. "It's a possibility. Usually it doesn't happen unless you've been holding it a lot, or you're dehydrated."
"Something
you
didn't know about me."
Gray realized he was right. He did not know if Natsu drank lots of water or not. He did not know if maybe he held his bladder frequently over the past few days. He had assumed too many things. "Okay, you're right. It was a danger I didn't fully take into account. I mean, anything kinky we do has the possibility of being dangerous. I could've tied you up and dislocated your shoulder. Anything with BDSM could be potentially harmful if done wrong. Do you still want to do it?"
"Yeah," Natsu mumbled. "I sorta like that stuff. Just be careful next time."
"Well, maybe next time you shouldn't hold it until you're in serious pain."
"Isn't that the point?" Natsu shouted. How dare this stripper accuse
him
.
"Perhaps … and it was really hot, watching you squirm."
Natsu paused, and then he glanced down to Gray's boxers. His jeans had vanished sometime since he entered the bedroom. "You're getting turned on just remembering it, aren't you?"
"Maybe," he mumbled, gazing over the bronze skin that was half hidden by bedsheets.
Natsu sighed and looked away. "Gray, I shouldn't—"
"No. You have a bladder infection. You shouldn't do anything sexual."
He turned away, but walking two steps told him that the stiffness in his boxers was worse than he thought. Now at a profile, Natsu could see the pole poking at the cotton fabric, and he licked his lips as he thought about what that thing could do to pleasure him.
"Do you want to do anything to ease it?"
"Like what? I don't want you to strain yourself."
"I thought it was really hot watching you jerk off."
Gray looked over to the bed. Damn him, but Natsu looked outright predatory with those narrow eyes gleaming at him like a wild beast. A surge hit Gray's cock, but he barely kept his hand away from touching it.
"We shouldn't," he whispered hoarsely. "Happy…"
"Oh right, Happy," Natsu recalled, frowning with disappointment. "Maybe later?"
"Another day," Gray said. "When you're feeling better."
"Yeah. Happy might come in, and you never know when Lucy or Erza might show up with chicken soup or some other thing they think will make me feel better. Yeah, probably a bad idea to do kinky stuff here, where people could see."
Oh God, it would be hot if Gray was in the middle of touching himself when they heard Lucy knocking at the door, or to see Gray scramble away at the sound of Erza's clomping armor boots. To push their limits, to do stuff where someone might find them…
Natsu laughed to himself.
Crap, am I actually an exhibitionist?
Gray noticed the bulge growing under the blankets. "You're getting aroused by some perverted thoughts, aren't you? What are they?"
"Nothing," he snapped. Gray had said he did not want to do kinky stuff in public, and although Natsu's house was anything but public, it was also not as secure as Gray's apartment or a love hotel. Natsu had to deal with a roommate and friends who dropped by.
"Do you need me to take care of it?"
Natsu glanced over. "I … want to say yes, but I probably shouldn't." He softly chuckled that they were being such idiots, torturing one another with their fantasies. "Let's stop getting each other aroused."
"Hah! Yeah right." Gray stood there, staring at the door, not moving. Simply being in the same room as Natsu was enough to arouse him.
"So, what now?"
Blandly, Gray said, "I'm trying not to think about you so I'll shrink down."
"Ohhh?" Natsu teased. "Do you get aroused just thinking about me?"
"Hell yes, and you're not helping."
Natsu kept quiet, watching as Gray tried to regain his composure, but it did not seem to be working. "Gray, before two days ago, did you ever … I dunno … think of me in … in any sort of way?"
Gray sighed and looked away. "Is this one of those trick questions and you're gonna hate me if I say no?"
"Uh … no." He squirmed and rubbed his wrist where there was still a bruise from the handcuffs. After a long, awkward pause, he confessed, "I didn't think of you that way. Ever. I don't know if that's okay, or if that's really crummy of me. I mean, a few days ago, you were just the annoying stripping pervert, and now …
lovers
," he exclaimed. "I was wondering if that was weird." He paused as he thought over something. "Okay, maybe once or twice I had those dreams about you imprisoning me in ice, but they weren't
serious
. They were just … dreams."
"Yeah, same here."
Natsu jolted. "What? You dreamed about me?"
"Maybe," he whispered shyly.
"About doing what?"
"I dunno, nothing specific, just … dreams about you."
"So, did we have something before all of this?"
"Just our own fantasies."
"Okay." Natsu smiled, and then he laughed happily.
"You like that idea, don't you?"
"I'm glad this is more than a spur-of-the-moment thing, and maybe we're making a huge mistake. At least we felt something before, so … that's good. Well, I wasn't really
in love
with you. Just … fantasies."
"Same here."
"Okay," he said, slightly relieved. "We probably both just …
fantasized
about one another, not really in love, but … but now we are?" He ended it in a question. Gray sighed, and his brow tensed up. "Sorry. I know, you won't say it's love. So, we care for one another, right?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
Care for one another.
It was Gray's way of saying it was love, without him committing to that taboo emotion that scared him. "Gray, did you want to tell other people? I mean, it'd be harder to hide everything, but I kinda feel bad for not saying anything to our friends, like this is shameful. I don't want to feel ashamed. I mean, I don't want people to know I'm … how I am," he said awkwardly. "I'm kinda ashamed of that issue, but I'm not ashamed that I'm with you. I don't want you to think I'm hiding it because I feel guilty for liking guys. I honestly don't feel that way. Hiding this from Happy all morning … it made me feel sorta bad."
Gray sighed in frustration that he was bringing this up again. "Natsu, I've said this before. It's up to you. I don't care either way. But you're right, if people knew … God, I mean … just look at your wrists."
"Huh?"
"Your wrists are all bruised up. Didn't you notice that?"
"Oh! Yeah, I noticed a little. I'm used to bruises."
"You were … thrashing around a lot last night," he whispered, remembering the sexy scene of Natsu writhing under him. This was really not helping his erection. "Those handcuffs were too hard. Next time we should use rope, or maybe the fuzzy cuffs."
Natsu laughed. "Fuzzy cuffs?"
"It's not funny. They're less likely to leave marks. I mean, right now, if people saw those bruises, they'd merely think you were in a fight and someone grabbed your wrists. If they know we're together, and they see bruising like that, the more perverted people in the guild will guess what we do."
"Perverted? You mean Erza, Cana, Mira, and Macao."
Gray laughed that he had named those people specifically. "Yeah, them."
"So, we should hide it?"
"I dunno. If you feel bad about keeping it secret, then let's not. We just have to be more cautious about leaving marks. I mean, look at my chest." He opened up his shirt and showed the pink scratch lines that still ached his skin. "Mira saw this and thought I had fought an animal. I've been struggling all day to keep my shirt on because of these scratches. If anyone sees it, and they know I'm dating you, they'll guess right away."
Natsu stared at those scratches. He had been so happy to leave the marks on Gray, but he had not thought about how marking Gray like that would be troublesome. Now he felt bad for doing it. A bruise here or there, they could pass off, but nail marks were not as easily explainable.
"Gray, do you not like doing this?"
"What?" he gasped. "Of course I do."
"Should I not scratch you?" Natsu asked meekly.
Gray looked down at the marks. "No … I liked it," he admitted hesitantly. "It's just that leaving marks can cause a bit of a problem. Still…" He gazed at Natsu, at the hickey, the wrist bruises, and the bits of skin that were still flawless, like a blank slate waiting to be decorated.
"What? You're looking at me funny."
Gray licked his lips. "I wanna mark up your body … bad."
Natsu's breath caught, and his heart began to race. "Gray," he whined. "Come on, don't get me turned on like this."
He snapped out of his salacious daze. "Sorry. I know, you're sick." He forced his eyes away. "I'll make you some juice. You should drink a lot, relax, take it easy. Don't think too hard on all this." Gray held Natsu's hand. "We'll figure this out as we go."
The Dragon Slayer squeezed those cold fingers tightly. Then Natsu raised Gray's hand up and kissed those pale knuckles. With his lips on Gray's hand, those narrow green eyes lifted, and the ice wizard gulped hard at the way those eyes gleamed at him.
Just then, a high voice called out. "Naaatsuuuuu."
Gray yanked his hand away. "Happy's home."
The Dragon Slayer blushed and pulled back. "Button your shirt up."
"Oh, right. And you might want … you know, scarf. Cover the…" He pointed to the purple mark on Natsu's neck.
"Oh, yeah." He pulled the white muffler around him, hiding the hickey.
Gray stepped closer to Natsu's bed. "Yeah, make sure it's up, and … here—" He tugged the scarf to hide the mark, but his hand lingered on Natsu's skin. Those long, cold fingers made Natsu shiver. "You're … burning up."
"Gray," Natsu huffed. "Don't … don't touch my neck like that. It's making me…" He awkwardly pointed to the arousal poking at the blankets.
"Oh! Sorry. I just … I wanna…" Gray wistfully gazed over that rock hard body.
"I know. Me too."
Right at the moment, the bedroom door opened, and Gray leaped away from the bed.
"Hey, Happy," he called out overly loud.
"Hello, Gray. How's Natsu?"
"Still sick. I'm gonna … you know … make juice. Um, can I borrow your bathroom first?"
Natsu arched an eyebrow. He had a feeling Gray wanted to do more than pee in the bathroom.
Make juice
…
God, he wanted to watch! He wanted to sit there, watch Gray touch himself, hear his seductive groaning, see his fingers stroke the length of his shaft, and have Gray come all over his face. He wanted to taste it, smell it, eat it up—
"It's down the hall," said Happy.
Natsu began to sit up. "I'll show you where—" He stopped in pain and grabbed his back. "Shit, ow!"
Gray rushed over to him. "Natsu!"
"I'm fine, just my back hurts."
Gray put his hand right over the kidneys. "Around here?"
"Yeah."
"Dammit. The infection must have hit your kidneys. Natsu, you're gonna need to see a doctor."
"I'm fine. I'll drink juice and—"
"You need medicine. I'll pay, if that's the problem."
Natsu had to admit, that really was the issue. He had not gone on a mission for a while, and his money was running low.
"We should go right away. Happy, you might have to carry him."
"Sure, but don't you need to use the bathroom first?"
"I … uh … don't really have to go anymore," he said awkwardly. Seeing Natsu in pain had killed his arousal instantly.
Once Natsu was dressed, Happy had to carry him and flew beside Gray as they walked to Porlyusica's house. They knocked on her door, and the ancient pink-haired doctor answered with a glare in her wrinkled red eyes.
"You two smell awful. What do you want?"
Gray stepped forward. "Natsu has a kidney infection. He's being stubborn about seeing a doctor, but he agreed to see you."
Natsu grumbled, "I know she won't charge an arm and a leg just for some medicine, and I trust her more than some lousy city doctor."
"Fine," Porlyusica snapped. "Bring him in. You stay out. You reek," she sneered to Gray.
"I showered this morning."
"You still stink like someone pissed on you."
Gray's face went pale, and Natsu's eyes widened as his cheeks flushed. Silently, Gray backed off, and Happy flew Natsu inside the old woman's home. He was dropped to the bed, and then Happy hurried out before the ancient healer had a chance to insult his smell too.
"Kidney infection, huh?" Porlyusica asked gruffly as she went to a sink to wash her hands.
"It hurts to pee, there's blood in my piss, and now my lower back hurts."
"Sounds like a urinary tract infection, all right. Any clue how you got it?"
Natsu shrank down and looked away. "Maybe from holding it too long."
"That can do it. For the next week, when you get even the faintest feeling like you need to pee, get to a bathroom. Don't hold it for more than five minutes. Don't eat anything sugary. Drink a lot of water. Cranberry juice too."
"Gray also mentioned about cranberries."
"I'm gonna give you a shot."
Natsu drew back at that threat.
"It'll clear up the initial problems and should ease the pain. Then there's some medicine you have to drink three times a day. I'll need a few minutes to let it brew." She tossed a bunch of herbs into a pot and set it over her fireplace. "I'll examine you while that boils. Shirt off."
Natsu tugged off his shirt. He looked down and saw the bruises on his wrists. She would definitely notice those. He wished he had worn his wristband.
Porlyusica checked his eyes, ears, nose, and throat, making him say "ah." This was all routine. Then she felt his back, and Natsu flinched when her cold hands reached the kidneys.
"What are these bruises on your neck and shoulder?"
"Uh … n-nothing. Maybe a fight."
"Fine. I'll check your temp and pulse." She rammed a thermometer into his mouth, then took his wrist. "My, my. You have some nasty bruises here too."
With the thermometer in his mouth, Natsu muttered, "Ish nothing. Jesh a fight."
"Just a fight, huh?" She sniffed him, then she leaned back and glared at him with hard eyes. "A consensual fight, or not?"
Natsu's eyes went huge.
"You reek of sex, you have bruises all over you, and you're sick. Were you assaulted?"
"No!" Natsu shouted so loudly, the thermometer spit out of his mouth. Porlyusica caught it with ease.
Gray burst through the door. "Are you okay, Natsu?" he asked in worry.
"Get out, you stinking human," Porlyusica roared, chasing him back outside with her broom and slamming the door on him. Then she looked down to the thermometer in her hand. "That's a bad fever. I'll give you something to take it down." She walked over to her cabinets. "That guy is rather protective over you."
"Gray?" Natsu looked toward the door. "Y-Yeah, I guess so."
She glanced back at him warily. "Is he a good partner?"
"What?" Natsu cried out, and his voice cracked.
"If he's abusive—"
"He's not!" Natsu shrank down. "That is … Gray and I … It's not like he does anything I don't want." He shrank down even lower. "It's just … how I am. I don't want anyone to know."
"A doctor never divulges information about her patients," Porlyusica told him. "Drink this." She gave him a cup, and Natsu gulped down something vile. "It's not like I care, anyway. However, by law and by the ethics followed by all healers, if I think a patient is being abused, I have to report it."
"It's not like that," Natsu whispered, handing the empty cup back to her. "Not in that way."
She raised an eyebrow, but she said nothing more. "Drop your pants. I need to give you a shot."
Natsu shifted around, undid his belt, and grimaced as he lowered his pants. Porlyusica had a needle with medicine inside. She rubbed a spot on the side of his butt cheek with alcohol, but as she looked at Natsu's bare buttocks, she saw even more bruises striping the skin, made by what she could tell must have been a belt.
"Have him go easier on you."
"I already told him that," Natsu mumbled. Then he felt the stab of the needle and cried out.
"Oh yeah, it might burn."
"Holy shit!" Natsu screamed. "What the hell is that?"
"Medication to take away the infection." She pulled the needle out and put a bandage over the shot. "You might not want to sit on that side for an hour." She walked over to the bubbling cauldron now steaming with a pungent fetor of the herbs she had added. "The next time you have an infection like this, come see me as soon as you have symptoms. Don't let it get this bad."
"I was fine last night."
"Then you might be sensitive to kidney infections. You probably shouldn't do
that sort of thing
anymore."
"But…" Natsu hugged his arms and looked away. "What if I wanna?"
She gazed back at him and that bashful posture. "Then plan for it a day beforehand, drink a lot of water with frequent urination the day before, and when it's time for
that
, don't hold it to the point of pain. After you're done with your play, continue drinking a lot of water and pee as soon as you get the urge. Cranberry juice will help keep the kidneys clean too. However, if this happens again, then even if you like it, it might be something you simply can't do."
Natsu had a stubborn pout. Although he had warned Gray not to do so much so quickly with him, when someone told him he
couldn't
do something, he instantly set in his mind that he was going to anyway.
Porlyusica carefully poured the cauldron's brew into a massive flask. "Half a cup of this three times a day for a week, or until it runs out, even if you feel better. That way the infection doesn't return." She shouted to the door. "You can come in."
Happy was the first to fly in, followed by Gray, who held back a little.
"Take this dragon boy home and let him rest. You, naked one, you'll carry this medicine for him."
Happy hefted Natsu up and began to fly him out while Gray came forward to retrieve the flask. Before handing it over, Porlyusica stared hard at him.
"Make sure you take care of him," she scolded quietly. "That's the Dominant's job."
Gray jolted, stunned by her words. "What did that flame-brain tell you?" he asked angrily.
"Nothing much. I guessed most of it based on his bruises and your reactions around him. Not that I'm into that sort of stuff, but Fairy Tail wizards do tend to lean toward the …
rougher
side of lovemaking. I've seen some bad injuries from rough play like that in my years. Letting him get sick like this is bad BDSM. If you're trying to hide it, you need to make sure he doesn't end up like this. A Dominant's prime duty is to take care of the mental and physical well-being of his partner."
Gray glanced out the door where Happy was waiting a little down the road. "I'm not a Dominant, not with Natsu," he whispered. "That idiot could never be fully submissive to anyone." He said it gruffly, but he felt a little proud about his wild Dragon Slayer. "But you're right, the responsibility really does lie on me, if only because I'm the one who hurt him."
"You're still young. You'll make mistakes. Don't beat yourself up because you beat him too hard or pushed his limits."
"Yeah," Gray muttered. "This is the first relationship where I can truly go to any extreme lengths. I'm not really sure what I'm doing sometimes, but I can't let him know that."
"That's the sort of mentality a Dominant has, thinking they must always be in control."
"Because normally, that's how I am," he admitted. "It's different with him, though. I think he's pushing
my
limits, to be honest."
"Then learn together, but be more careful. If you're unsure about your own limits, you really need to be cautious about his."
"I will," Gray promised. "Don't tell anyone. He wants to keep it a secret for now."
"So long as you take care of him. If he gets sick again, bring him to me directly."
"I will. Here's money for the medicine." He dropped a pouch of Jewels on her desk. "Thanks again … for everything."
"I still serve Fairy Tail," she said solemnly. "Now get out of my house before you make the whole place smell like piss."
"Seriously, lady, I've taken two showers since we did that."
"You still smell. Get out!" She raised her broom, and Gray fled before she could strike.
Three days later, Natsu was better and back at the guild, although he felt too weak to do a mission. He laughed as he complimented Mira's fire chicken that he had missed so much, and he half-listened to Lucy as she went on and on—
and on and on and on
, he thought—about a new chapter of her story. It was nice to be back among all of his friends.
Then he heard Gray's taunting voice. "Well, look who decided to get out of bed. I hope you slept well, Sleeping Beauty."
Natsu snapped back at him, "You're the one who needs beauty sleep, you droopy-eyed Snow White."
"If I'm Snow White, you must be the Pink Carnation, so delicate and hating to travel."
They bickered, until someone swung a punch, a chair was thrown, and the whole guild broke into a brawl. It was sheer chaos as everyone joined in. Even Lucy laughed and called out Loke to see if he wanted to throw a few punches for old time's sake.
Natsu ripped off Gray's underwear and held them above his head as he leaped atop a table. "Haha! Got them. Hey, maybe I should toss this to Juvia."
"YES!" the rain woman shouted, eagerly stretching her hands out to catch them.
"Bastard," bellowed Gray. "Hand that back."
Just before Natsu could toss the boxers, Elfman was tossed into him, and Natsu crashed into Gray, who had just leaped to join him on the table. All three were propelled to the other side of the guild and slammed into the wall. Gray's back hit the wood. Right against him was Natsu, smashed between Elfman and Gray, their faces mere centimeters apart.
They stared at one another for a quiet moment, blocked from sight by the Take-Over wizard's massive body. Natsu felt Gray's nude body, and he gazed at the bare chest. He realized the scratch marks were gone, as was the hickey. He wanted to mark Gray again, and to be marked, to show ownership of each other with scratches, bruises, and the roughness of their love.
Gray's eyes went hazy as he felt the hard, hot body smashed against him. He reached forward and let his fingers glide up Natsu's biceps, feeling those powerful muscles. Natsu gulped at the cold touch. A sly smile rose into Gray's face. God, he wanted to see Natsu tied up, squirming under him, totally at his mercy, whimpering from the sweet pain he could dole out.
Elfman moved, pushing himself off of them. "Are you two okay?"
Gray's hand let go quickly. He continued to stare into Natsu's face. He flicked his eyes silently to the uproarious crowd, asking without words,
Do you want to tell them?
Natsu's mouth opened, yet he looked down sadly and shook his head. He did want to tell. He hated the idea of keeping secrets from his friends, especially about a relationship, but if others knew, it would make this sort of relationship more challenging.
"I'm fine," Gray said to Elfman, but then his eyes returned to Natsu, letting him know that statement applied to him as well. If Natsu wanted to keep it a secret, he was fine with that. Elfman moved away to rejoin the brawl, leaving Gray and Natsu against the wall. "So, how about you, fire-breath? Are you
up
to more?"
"Do you mean grappling with you?" Natsu smirked and leaned into his face. "It's not even
hard
yet."
"I'll
vigorously beat
you until you're too sore to walk."
"I can take any
rough pounding
you give me, popsicle-pants."
Gray was nearly panting with suppressed lust. "Your place or mine?" he breathed.
"Yours would be best."
"Let's get out of here," Gray whispered.
Natsu handed the underwear back. "I hope you're prepared."
"I'm always ready for a rough brawl with you."
As the riot inside the guild hall reached an apex, Gray dodged fighters to retrieve his scattered clothes, tugging them on as he made his way to the door. He saw Natsu already waiting outside. The Dragon Slayer beckoned with a
come-hither
finger, and Gray eagerly chased after him.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
“I… I was cooking. Beef tacos,” he mumbled, barely loud enough to hear. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor; he did not want to make the alpha angrier than he already would be. “And I… I slipped. A lot of salt. Too much. It,” he swallowed hard, a shiver running up his arms, “ruined everything. I had to throw it away.”
He drew a shaky breath, chest rising and falling too fast. “I’m so sorry, Alpha. It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. I…” His voice broke. “I got distracted.”
He said it and went still. He knew it probably did not matter that he had been distracted. The alpha did not need excuses. Castiel had only asked to know what had happened, to hear how his stupid omega had fucked up.
So Dean shut his mouth.
Castiel did not leap up, did not grab his hair, did not bark orders. He just sat there, quiet. Dean felt his heart kick faster with every second.
He tightened his fists on his knees until his nails bit into his palms. The small sting felt like proof he was still real. He felt that it might start to bleed.
Why are you in a hurry to bleed! he thought, bitter and hollow.
A few more minutes crawled by. Still no shout, no command to strip, no approaching footsteps. Dean tried, stupidly, to sniff Castiel’s scent. What hit him was a tangle of feelings: confusion, a hard edge of annoyance, maybe sadness. And anger.
He knew it was all because of him.
Cold spread through him. The alpha was thinking, taking his time to plan. Planning a punishment that would make up for every slip, every little failure, all the times Castiel had tolerated him.
Hot tears slipped down Dean’s cheeks. He wanted to beg out loud, to ask for something quick and finished, a whipping that would be over, a couple of days starving if that was what was coming. I can take it, he thought. I will learn. Please, do not make it worse than it needs to be.
Please I don’t deserve that much planning, but… he deserved it, didn’t he?
He had been nothing but terrible since the alpha got him.
More tears fell. He clenched his jaw and fought not to sob, not to make a sound.
Suddenly the alpha was on his feet, the movement sharp enough to tear the air around them. Dean couldn’t hold back the violent flinch that shook through his body. His stomach dropped, his chest seized.
It’s coming… The thought echoed like a drumbeat as he fought to make himself smaller without actually moving, without breaking the posture drilled into him. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the first blow, whichever one would land.
But the hit didn’t come.
Instead, he heard it, knees hitting the floor right in front of him. The sound cracked through him worse than any fist could have. Dean flinched again, his spine curling forward, his head ducking down further as if his body could shield itself. His hands stayed knotted tight on his knees. He didn’t dare raise them to protect his face, not when that would give away how poorly trained he was.
God, please, not my face. He begged it silently, words burning against the inside of his skull. Bruises there always lasted too long, made him uglier than he already felt, made it impossible not to see the reminder every time he caught a glimpse of himself. He hated it. He always avoided looking at himself.
The prayer shattered when a hand, large, warm, too steady, landed on his shoulder. Dean’s whole body jolted, trembling harder. He could barely breathe past the rush of panic. He knew what this was. The alpha was pinning him down, making sure he couldn’t bolt or do anything stupid.
But he wouldn’t. He never would. Running was beaten out of him years ago. He’d learned what it cost, that trying to escape always dragged out the punishment and carved the lesson deeper into his bones. No, Dean doesn’t run anymore.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until finally the alpha spoke.
“Listen, Dean.”
The voice was steady, firm, carrying weight that pulled Dean’s head up despite himself. His breath hitched, caught in his throat, his chest aching from holding it. That tone demanded his attention, and it had it, every bit of it.
He waited, muscles locked tight, heart hammering against his ribs. Waited for the sentence, for the punishment, for the words that would make all this dread solid and real.
“I understand that you made a mistake. But from what you told me… I believe it was unintentional. Am I correct?”
The alpha spoke again, calm and steady. Dean heard the question but he couldn’t wrap his head around it.
Of course it wasn’t intentional. Why would he ever be bad on purpose?
Still, his chest sank heavy, because he knew alphas started like this sometimes, soft words first, only to tell him how disappointed they were after.
Dean’s heart ached as he felt something heavy fill his chest. The thought of disappointing this alpha… it cut right through him. He had been so good to him. Patient and kinder than any other alpha he had been with before.
The alpha wasn’t talking again, apparently waiting for his answer. So Dean fought hard to push out the words.
“Yes, Alpha… I didn’t mean to… I swear. I know it doesn’t matter and… and I’m ready for my punishment but please don’t… don’t hate me.”
The last words slipped out before he could stop them, but God, they were the truest ones. He just wanted the alpha to punish him and he would be better, he would do everything he could to make things better.
But hate? God, he didn’t want Castiel to hate him.
His mind betrayed him, bringing back Cas’s mother’s voice. If she knew how bad he was, she’d hate him too. She’d send him away. She would make Castiel return him to the center. The thought made his chest tighten until his breath came short and shaky.
No, no, no. I can’t afford that.
Panic was rising fast, blurring the edges of the room. Dean tried to force his lungs to work, dragging in air that felt too thin, too sharp. His head spun, his body trembling. As he inhaled deeply,
Then… he caught it. A shift in the air. Castiel’s scent, now softer. He smelled satisfied, almost… happy!
Dean’s head snapped up before he could stop himself, desperate to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind. Sure he was hallucinating, right?
He saw the alpha… smiling?
Dean’s eyes went wide.
It wasn’t the cruel kind of smile he knew too well, the one that always came before hell rained down on his head. No, this one was small. Soft. Almost happy. And underneath it… sympathy.
“It’s okay, my omega,” Castiel said gently.
Dean froze. The way he said it, “my omega,” no one had ever spoken it like that before punishment. Usually it came with sharpness, a reminder of his place, a chain of degradation.
But Castiel said it different. Like a promise. Like a flirt.
What the hell was happening?
Dean’s pulse stumbled. For a second he wondered if he was still on the floor, fainting, imagining things. Maybe he’d gone too far into panic, disoriented himself until he was hearing things that weren’t real.
He startled when the alpha’s hand suddenly wrapped around his own, squeezing gently. Dean braced himself, waiting for the squeeze to turn cruel, for his fingers to be bent back until he heard the pop of bone.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, the alpha’s voice broke the silence. “I know you didn’t mean to. And it’s not fair to punish you for your first accident.”
Dean blinked, confusion flooding in where fear had been sitting heavy. “I… I don’t understand,” he stammered before he could stop himself.
“You’re always doing your best, and this is your first time messing up something like this. So… it’s fair to give you a chance, right?” Castiel asked, calm and steady.
Dean nodded quickly, his body answering before his brain could. Agreeing out of instinct, not belief.
No. Not right.
Even if he tried his best, he still messed up. And when you mess up, you get punished. That’s how it works.
Then the alpha’s fingers slipped through Dean’s hair, brushing it gently away from his forehead before trailing down the side of his cheek. Dean stiffened instantly, bracing himself to be slapped, because hands on his face almost always meant a slap. But it didn’t come. Instead, Castiel’s touch moved lower, steady, until his fingers curled under Dean’s chin and tilted it upward.
Dean’s whole body fought against the urge to flinch, to drop back into the safety of submission, but he forced himself to hold still. Posture. Stillness. Obedience.
“You’re perfect for me, Dean. My good omega,” Castiel murmured, his voice low and sure.
What? Dean’s chest squeezed tight. Perfect? Was he mocking him? He had to be.
Dean started to bow his head, shame burning his throat, but before he could move, Castiel’s lips brushed his own. A soft, fleeting kiss. Dean’s eyes slammed shut at the suddenness of it, breath catching sharp in his lungs.
And then it was over. The alpha pulled back, leaving Dean frozen in place, mind spinning out of control.
What was that?
The realization hit hard, twisting in his stomach like a knife. The alpha wanted him. Wanted sex. Of course. That’s what it had to be.
It was the alpha’s right, he should have given it to him the moment he stepped into this house. That’s why he was here in the first place.
Dean forced his throat to work, gathering up what little courage he had left, and pushed the words out.
“Do you… do you want me to serve you now?” he asked, quiet but steady, doing his best to sound ready, even if inside he felt like he was unraveling.
The alpha’s scent shifted so suddenly it made Dean’s chest tighten. Panic? Why? Dean froze, terrified he had said the wrong thing.
“No, no, I didn’t mean this… I mean, yes, but no. Not this,” Castiel said quickly, words tumbling over each other.
Dean blinked, confused. Why was the alpha panicking? He had been almost certain that’s what Castiel wanted. Was he reading him wrong again?
Castiel dragged in a few deep breaths, his voice and scent settling as he spoke again, slower this time. “I don’t want… uh… that.”
Dean’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t dare question. His lips parted, closed again, and instead he bowed his head low, only daring to peek up through his lashes to read the alpha’s face.
Castiel’s eyes softened as he asked, almost hesitant, “You’re… okay with that?”
Okay with being kissed instead of struck? Okay with being called perfect instead of being whipped bloody?
Hell, yes.
Dean lifted his gaze, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks. “Yes, Alpha… I’m okay,” he whispered, the words quiet but steady.
Castiel smiled again, and Dean felt his chest squeeze at the sight. How could an alpha be like this?
It was the complete opposite of what he had braced himself for. But for the first time in a long time, Dean felt lucky. And blessed.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Twelve
Bruce slept deeper than he had in months.
No restless dreams.
No alarms dragging him awake in the middle of the night.
Just
warmth
.
The quiet weight of another heartbeat pressed against his own, steady in a way that made something inside him unclench.
At some point during the night, his body had betrayed him and had drifted closer to Clark with his arm resting over the man’s chest. Bruce couldn’t remember the last time he’d allowed himself that kind of ease.
Then the light cut across his eyelids, sharp and unforgiving. He stirred, burrowing closer instinctively, tucking his face against Clark’s chest to hide from the morning sun. The scent of laundry soap and something quieter, something that was just him, lingered there.
And then it hit.
Awareness and Clarity.
The sharp reminder that
this
wasn’t safe.
He froze. His every muscle locking down, as though moving too fast might trigger some kind of alarm.
Slowly, carefully, he slipped free of Clark’s arm like evading tripwires or like easing through a laser grid with his every movement silent and surgical.
Distance. He needed distance.
Bruce’s pulse hammered in his throat as he put space between them, standing in the dim light of the bedroom. His chest was tight with a rush of panic pressing in under his ribs.
What the hell am I doing here?
This, whatever this was, wasn’t for him.
He didn’t get to wake up to someone’s warmth.
He didn’t get to fall asleep in safety. His life wasn’t built for it.
He was built of the opposite: of loss, of discipline and of control.
To let himself want more and want him was selfish. It was
dangerous
.
Clark didn’t
know
.
About the cape.
About the cave.
About the endless nights of blood and violence stitched into his skin. About the graves Bruce still carried with him: His parents,
Jason
. All the ways he’d failed them and all the ways he kept failing.
And wasn’t it cruel?
To let Clark’s laughter pull something alive out of him, when Bruce knew the truth of his life was nothing but shadows and secrets?
His hands shook as he buttoned the shirt from the night before.
He forced them still and folded the borrowed clothes carefully, setting them neatly on the edge of the tub as if that act could erase the evidence of where he’d been.
He paused once at the doorway, his eyes flicking back to Clark, still asleep and peaceful, his hair a mess against the pillow. The rare beauty of the man in front of him and how different, yet familiar he looked without his glasses.
It almost undid him.
Because for a moment, Bruce saw the temptation in staying and in letting this become something more. He could imagine it. Slow Sunday mornings with Clark, right here. Cooking together, watching a movie. Doing more.
But that wasn’t fair.
It simply wasn't fair to Clark.
So he left.
The morning air outside was sharper than he expected, cutting through his lungs. He walked a block, maybe two, before pulling out his phone.
He stared at the blank screen for too long, his thumb hovering. He shouldn’t text. He should just disappear. He was good at that, at least.
But guilt gnawed at him, relentless. So he started typing.
📲: sorry i left so abruptly, you know how it is.
📲: can’t be MIA long if you have a business.
Not a lie. But not the truth either.
Never the truth.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, jaw tight.
Clark Kent deserved honesty.
Bruce Wayne couldn’t give it.
And Batman?
Batman had no business wanting it
.
-
The absence wakes him twenty minutes later.
At first it’s nothing more than a shift in weight and the faintest brush of cool air against his side.
Clark stirs, his eyes still closed, instinctively letting his senses drift outward. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until he catches the sound he’s searching for.
Bruce’s heartbeat.
The one he’d listened to all night, steady and grounding, like a lighthouse in the dark.
Now it’s moving: soft and deliberate, but ultimately pulling away.
Down the hall.
Out the door.
Onto the street.
Clark lies there, still and silent, listening until it fades into the static hum of the city, swallowed by a thousand other rhythms that don’t matter.
His chest feels too tight when it’s gone.
When he finally opens his eyes, the sunlight has already begun its slow creep across the bed.
The sheets on Bruce’s side are rumpled, still faintly warm and the indentation of his body still pressed into the mattress. Clark stares at that hollow space far longer than he should, before he pushes himself upright and drags a hand down the back of his neck.
His phone buzzes against the nightstand.
He doesn’t need to look to know who it is.
He looks anyway.
Two short texts. Crisp. Efficient. Neat.
Words that could’ve been sent to anyone, really.
Words with no trace of the man who, hours ago, had leaned into him in the quiet, who’d let himself soften in ways Bruce Wayne probably swore he never did.
Clark huffs something that sounds like a laugh but feels hollow in his chest. He could reply with a joke:
you owe me breakfast
or keep it simple:
no problem
Something light and easy.
But his thumb hovers over the screen and then falls away. Instead, he sets the phone back down, untouched.
Clark leans back against the headboard, his eyes sliding to the space beside him again.
For a few hours, it hadn’t been empty. It had been warm and alive, filled with the sound of someone else’s breathing and the weight of someone else’s heartbeat.
For a few hours, Clark had let himself believe he wasn’t carrying everything alone.
And now he's gone.
He tells himself it doesn’t matter and that Bruce Wayne owes him nothing, that whatever this was, it was never meant to last longer than a night.
He tells himself it’s fine and that it’s better this way anyways.
But the ache in his chest betrays him.
He’s not even sure he believes a word he’s telling himself.
-
The manor’s doors swung shut behind Bruce with a soft click, the morning quiet pressing close. Bruce hung his coat over the arm of a chair, his movements as precise and controlled as if nothing were amiss. He had, after all, texted Alfred hours ago that he'd be back in the morning and he kept his word.
But predictability didn’t spare him his family’s scrutiny.
“Welcome home, sir.” Alfred’s voice carried from the hallway, smooth and measured, though the faintest undertone suggested he was already taking stock. “A night away is unusual, even for you.”
“I noticed that too,” Dick called, appearing on the stairwell, messy-haired, barefoot, leaning into the banister like he was thirteen again. A grin tugged at his mouth. “So, Brucie, how was your ‘business’ in Metropolis? Need me to believe you spent all night staring at balance sheets?”
Bruce's tone was clipped. “It was work, Dick.”
“Uh-huh,” Dick said, bounding down the last few steps. He fell into step at Bruce’s side as the latter was on his way to the cave, his son's sharp eyes tracking him. “Work that left you wearing the same shirt you had on yesterday?” His smirk sharpened. “What was her name? Or was it
his
?”
Bruce didn’t flinch, but the line of his shoulders went stiff. He kept walking.
Dick barked a laugh. “You were with the
reporter
, weren’t you?
Clark Kent
. Tall, polite, too many curls. Figures.”
That landed harder than it should have. Bruce’s jaw clenched, his whole body tensing at the mention of
his
reporter.
“
Enough
.”
The word cut sharp, but Dick didn’t back down, grin widening, needling further towards him. “You like him. Oh my god, father, I didn’t think I’d live to see it. The Bat actually-”
“
Move
.”
The sudden edge in his voice made the air go brittle. Alfred’s brows knit faintly. Dick faltered, his grin slipping, though his chin still tilted stubbornly upward. He didn’t move. He was Bruce’s son after all.
So Dick only leaned in, challenging Bruce and standing in front of batcave’s entrance now. “So it
really
was him.”
The tension tightened.
Bruce’s voice dropped, steel sheathed in ice, talking through gritted teeth. “
Move
.”
“
No.
”
For a moment, the hush of the manor seemed to press in closer, walls listening. Bruce’s fists curled at his sides. “
I said move, Richard
.”
This time, Dick faltered. Just slightly. His shoulders shifted back, but his eyes stayed locked on Bruce’s, stubborn.
Bruce brushed past him, the words spilling harsher than intended. “You want answers? Stop acting like
goddamn
children.”
Dick stilled, the grin gone now, replaced with something thinner and harder. Alfred’s silence was worse, the disappointment in his eyes screaming at Bruce.
Bruce yanked open the clock-face, the hidden stairwell yawning into shadow.
“I. don’t. owe. you. every. fucking. piece. of. me. Neither of you.”
The silence after was heavier than stone. Dick froze on the spot and something wounded flickered under the defiance. Alfred’s lips pressed thin, shaking his head and putting a hand on Dick's shoulder.
Bruce left,
and then the cave swallowed him whole.
-
The cave didn’t know days.
Only the cycle of the computers’ hum and the steady drip of groundwater echoing through stone.
Time bled together.
Several meals Alfred had left on trays went cold and remained untouched, except for the coffee cups, obviously.
Bruce barely noticed.
Every file led to another lock, another wall of redacted text and another shadow he forced his way through.
He chased Emil Hamilton across ghost accounts and erased patents, every breadcrumb stitched together by algorithms that Bruce had written for exactly this purpose: to find what someone else desperately wanted buried.
Project KR.
He found that in the depths of Cadmus and the designation looped in his mind like a threat.
He pulled it apart from every angle: “
Kryptonian template,” “growth accelerants,” “containment failure and possible breach.”
That last phrase haunted him most. Whoever had been inside that pod, they hadn’t
died
in it.
They had
left
.
Three nights blurred into one.
Dick had knocked once, his voice tentative and hurt outside the cave’s stone mouth.
Bruce hadn’t answered.
The next day Alfred descended, standing silently until Bruce felt the weight of his stare.
“You can burn yourself hollow chasing ghosts,” Alfred had said softly.
Bruce’s jaw had clenched so hard it hurt.
“They’re not ghosts,” he rasped, his eyes never leaving the monitor.
“They’re weapons, Alfred.”
After that, Alfred left him be, though trays still came and went, and once a folded blanket appeared draped over the back of his chair.
Bruce didn’t use it.
The deeper he went, the clearer the pattern became.
Cadmus hadn’t worked alone. Funding flowed from LexCorp shell companies, but the logistics and the off-book shipments with the clandestine facility blueprints? They all bore the fingerprints of the League of Shadows. Precision. Secrecy. Ruthless efficiency.
Ra’s fucking al Ghul.
Bruce’s shoulders went rigid.
He remembered the pit’s whispers and the way Ra’s had once spoken to them in LA about balance, about life and death not being opposites but tools. Resurrection was only one path, Ra’s had said.
Creation is the other.
And now Cadmus had given him the laboratory to try.
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, exhausted eyes burning, but he forced himself forward. His cowl discarded on the console edge next to him, tempting him. It would be easier to slip into Batman’s skin than sit here as Bruce Wayne, unraveling a nightmare one keystroke at a time.
He pressed on anyway.
By the fourth night, his body was lead and his ribs throbbed from the warehouse fight, but his mind wouldn’t stop. He passed out from exhaustion in his chair and didn’t even notice how Dick carried him on a couch hidden away in a far corner od the cave.
-
The next few days blent together like watercolor.
Cities folded over one another, stitched together by flights and deadlines.
One day, Metropolis, where he filed two articles back-to-back fueled by burnt newsroom coffee and Lois’s commentary from the next desk over.
Later that night the two of them sat cross-legged on the floor of her apartment, cartons of takeout scattered around them.
Lois, sharp-eyed as always even when tired, teased him about his “mystery dinner companion.”
Clark deflected with a smile that felt just a little too thin.
The next day Diana found him in a sun-washed café along the Seine, their weekly coffee meet-up turned parisian this time.
She didn’t tease.
She listened while he told her about Bruce, about how the night had ended and about the hollow space that lingered afterward.
She sipped her tea and said:
“Sometimes the people we let in the least are the ones we need the most.”
Then Washington inbetween, another therapy appointment.
It was harder this time.
Evelyn Shaw was good.
Her voice was calm, never pitying and absolutely
never
impressed by his cape.
She asked him questions that dug way past Superman and deep into Clark, into the boy who grew up in Kansas fields.
He left with his mind buzzing louder than when he’d walked in, but it was a start.
He told himself that was enough.
He told himself that he could keep breathing and keep moving, without feeling like he was suffocating in his own suit.
When the noise grew too sharp, he fled north.
The Fortress swallowed him in silence, the crystalline walls refracting light like frozen hymns. Here even
his
heartbeat sounded small.
Krypto bounded toward him, his nails clicking against crystal. Then Kara dropped by one afternoon with a sack of pastel-colored pastries she swore were “fortress-worthy" and for a while, it was easy to smile.
But the quiet has its teeth.
Between the conversations and the laughter, in the gaps between Krypto’s paws skittering on the floor, Clark felt it tugging at the edges. The absence. The disappointment.
Bruce.
It took him three days to answer that tidy and impersonal text he'd gotten.
Three days of staring at it in the corner of his phone and drafting replies he deleted immediately. When he finally sent one, it was safe, light and easy.
📲 Glad you made it back in one piece. I enjoyed our time together. Let me know when you’re in town again.
He hit send before he could stop himself and overthink his choices again.
It should have felt like closure.
It didn’t.
Worse, the confusion kept twisting into something harder to name. Because when Clark thought about Bruce, he felt that same pull he’d been fighting for months, the one tied to someone else entirely.
Batman.
Batman and that sharp, inexplicable gravity.
The one who never let
anyone
close, least of all him.
Now, Bruce Wayne’s face kept slipping into the same mental space. And it was
maddening
.
So Clark did what he always did when thoughts pressed too hard.
He worked.
At first, it was the usual clutter: political posturing, financial maneuvers, petty crimes too small for the League’s focus.
But then he caught it.
A pattern.
A pulse beneath the noise.
A transport manifest. Rerouted mid-shipment. Cargo tagged as
“biological nutrient storage.”
Final destination: a black-site in Virginia.
Two names attached. One was Emil Hamilton’s. The other an alias Clark knew all too well.
Lex Luthor’s
.
The air left him in a rush.
Cadmus. Lex. Ra’s. Ivy. Harley. Emil.
It wasn’t scattered pieces anymore. It was a net. And he was caught dead center.
Somewhere out there was the thing from the pod. The thing Ivy had carved her message for.
When the sun looks into the mirror, he’ll find a shadow wearing his face.
The thought made his skin go cold.
By nightfall, he’d had enough.
No more silence. No more secrets.
The call went out from the Fortress and carried across channels only the League could access.
Urgent, highest priority-level.
Justice League meeting.
No delay.
He didn’t care if they were halfway around the world, he needed them. He needed Diana, Kara, Barry, Ollie, Dinah, J’onn.
All
of them. They were as much his family as Martha and Jonathan Kent were.
For the first time, he admitted it to himself:
he couldn’t do this alone
.
And yet, beneath the urgency and beneath the steady mask he tried to hold onto, there was another thought he kept buried.
A thought that felt far too raw to say aloud.
He wondered if Batman would come.
And,
God help him
, if Bruce would answer his text.
-
The alarm cut through the cave like a blade. Sharp and shrill and it wasn’t one he ever ignored.
Bruce stirred against the couch, eyes snapping open to dim monitors across the cave. His body protested, the ache in his ribs still not fully dulled, the weight of nights without sleep grinding bone-deep.
“Bruce.”
A hand shook his shoulder and for a split second, in the fog of waking, he thought
Jason
.
“
Dad.
”
The voice was wrong.
Lighter and older.
When he focused his eyes, he saw Dick standing there in his training clothes.
“It’s a League call. Highest Priority.”
Bruce blinked the fog out, forcing his breath steady.
He pushed himself upright and his eyes lingered on Dick just long enough for the boy’s brow to crease in quiet concern.
Jason’s gone, Bruce. Don’t forget who’s still here.
He didn’t say it out loud.
Instead he simply said:
“
Thanks, son
.”
He grabbed the cowl, the cape and the gauntlets.
The private teleportation pad hummed to life beneath his boots, the one he’d installed in secret years ago.
Superman had once scowled at the idea of Batman having a back door into the Watchtower’s systems.
Bruce had said nothing at the time, but now, as the pad charged beneath him, he almost laughed.
Superman, complaining about fairness, as if the man who could fly across the planet in less than a minute had any ground to stand on.
Idiot
, Bruce thought, and the corner of his mouth twitched at the thought of the other man.
Then light swallowed him whole.
When it cleared, he was standing in crystalline stillness with the Fortress towering around him.
He was last to arrive, the others already gathered at the main console.
Wonder Woman in full armor and the Flash pacing as always, Supergirl near her cousin with J’onn as silent as ever, and near them Aquaman standing like he’d rather be anywhere else than here but not giving any impression that he might leave any time soon. Arrow and Canary huddled over Krypto,
that dog
, in a corner.
And then.
Superman.
Their eyes locked across the gleam of crystal and shadows and not a single word passed.
Just a nod, subtle and firm.
A silent understanding that what they’d uncovered with Hamilton’s name, Ivy’s riddle and the pod? It wasn’t theirs to hoard anymore.
Secrets were currency, but this one? It could bankrupt the entire world if they kept it too long.
Bruce stepped forward, his cape brushing against the frozen floor. His voice carried low but sharp in the still air. “Cadmus is active. Emil Hamilton’s involved.” Supergirl gasped at that, not hiding the pain and the feel of betrayal in her eyes.
“We-,
Superman and I
, have found evidence of LexCorp funding routed into black sites. Genetic work. Containment pods. Alterations. You name it.”
He saw Kara’s jaw tighten and Wonder Womans brows pull together in confusion. J’onn’s gaze flickered in something that might’ve been recognition. Or dread.
Superman added, his voice steady, “I have found a site in Virginia. Shipment manifests Emil’s requisitions
directly
there. Whatever Cadmus is building, this isn’t just science. It’s a weapon. And…” His voice thinned just a fraction. “It’s
personal.
”
The Fortress went quieter still.
Bruce filled the silence. “Ivy left a message at the pod. A riddle. It said, ‘
When the sun looks into the mirror, he’ll find a shadow wearing his face.
’” He let that hang, the words heavy in the crystalline walls.
The weight of it rippled across them and then the understanding.
A shadow.
A double.
An enemy built from the sun,
from Superman himself
.
Bruce’s gaze swept the team.
Family
, whether he liked admitting it or not. He hated their flaws and their noise and their hope, but they were
his
.
And they needed the truth.
He stepped back, arms folding into the armor’s black weight. “This isn’t conspiracy anymore. It’s a target. We have Virginia now. We gotta move soon.”
Superman’s eyes flicked toward him again.
Bruce didn’t look away, admiring the blue in his eyes.
So
familiar, but he couldn’t place where from.
The room held its silence for a beat too long.
Long enough for Bruce to hear the faint hum of Fortress machinery, the slow drip of melted ice echoing somewhere in the distance.
Long enough to feel the weight of every eye shift toward Superman as if he already was the riddle made flesh.
Kara was the first to break.
She stepped forward, her jaw tight and her fists clenched at her sides.
“If Cadmus is targeting Kryptonian biology, then it’s not just my cousin they’re coming after.”
Her voice was sharp enough to bite. “It’s me too. Every time someone tries to turn us into an experiment, we get the same story. Control, weaponization, fear.”
She looked directly at Superman, then at Bruce. “I’m not sitting this out and I’m disappointed you waited this long to tell us.”
Bruce catalogued the fire in her tone, the defensiveness laced with something younger. It was fear, hidden behind steel.
She’s right. She’s also reckless.
Keep her focused, not raging.
The Flash, predictably, tried to lighten the air that had gone lead-heavy. “Okay, uh, creepy pod clone things aside… at least this one isn’t a giant evil gorilla? Right? We can handle Cadmus. We’ve handled worse…Right?”
He gestured with both hands, but the laugh didn’t come, not really.
His speed betrayed him. The way his foot tapped too quickly against the floor told Bruce he was rattled, no matter what mask he wore.
Aquaman snorted, his arms folded across his chest like a barricade. “Science freaks in a bunker playing god. Typical. But let’s be clear, if Luthor’s involved, then the ocean’s not far behind on their list of toys. They’ll use whatever they get their hands on, and they won’t stop at Kryptonian blood.” His voice was steady, edged with disdain. “I’ll stand with you. But don’t pretend this shadow is just a Superman problem. This stinks for all of us.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Pragmatic. That’s good. He’ll keep the rest grounded
.
Wonder Woman’s expression hadn’t changed since Superman had spoken, but when she finally spoke, it was quiet and resolute. “The Greeks told stories of men who sought to create life in their own image. Always it ended in ruin. Always it was hubris.” She stepped forward, her hand resting briefly on Superman’s arm, not as comfort but as anchoring. “If Cadmus believes they can forge a living weapon out of you, my dear, then they will learn the same lesson. We’ll face this
together
.”
There was no doubt in her voice, only conviction. It rang in Bruce’s chest like a chord struck clean.
She believes it.
They all do.
Even if they shouldn’t.
J’onn's voice slid into the air like smoke, low and resonant, carrying the echo of minds beyond their own. “I have sensed flickers in the psychic field. Whispers of projects buried deep in human fear. Emil Hamilton’s name is not new to me. He is brilliant, but he is lost.” J’onn’s gaze lingered on Superman longer than most. “Whatever Cadmus is building, it will not simply be a weapon. It will be a mirror. And
mirrors can break minds before they break bodies
, Superman.”
Bruce didn’t show the chill that crawled under his armor at that. Mirrors.
The same word Ivy had left behind. The same riddle carved into glass.
Arrow was the first to speak after J’onn's warning, his voice sharp enough to cut through the silence. “Shadows in mirrors, cloned faces, it all smells like Ra’s, let’s be real. The man’s been trying to play god since before any of us were born. Lazarus Pits, resurrection cults, whatever flavor of immortality he’s chasing this decade, it’s always about the same fucking thing:
control
.” He leaned back, his arms crossed and his eyes narrowing. “And
Cadmus?
They want the same thing. Different methods. You fuse those two philosophies, you don’t just get weapons. You get… heirs. A whole line of them.”
Bruce said nothing, but his stomach knotted. He’d seen what the Lazarus Pit did to men. The way it stripped them, not just of death,
but of sanity
. He remembered the glazed eyes of those who’d been submerged, the feral rage burning out of them, the way they came back less human. The Pit didn’t give life, it corrupted it.
The canary’s voice broke in, steadier but edged with steel. “Ollie’s right. Ra’s obsession has never just been about living forever, it’s about creating a legacy in his image. The Pits were about rebirth. Cadmus is about creation. Put them together, you’re looking at something worse than any army.” She paused, her gaze steady, cutting toward Bruce. “Ra’s doesn’t build one monster. He builds legacies. Lineages. Entire generations of loyal shadows behind him.”
The words lingered heavier than she likely intended.
Lineages. Heir. Successor.
And for a moment, though he buried it quick, Bruce felt something cold ripple up his spine:
the knowledge that there were fates far crueler than death.
Finally, Superman cleared his throat. He looked at each of them in turn, his voice steady but softer now. “I called you because this isn’t just my fight. It’s ours. If Cadmus is making a shadow, then it’s not just my reflection, it’s a reflection of what they think all of us should be. Controlled. Owned. Used.” He swallowed, glancing down for the barest second before meeting their eyes again. “I trust you to face this with me.”
That trust sat like a weight Bruce wasn’t sure he wanted.
But when the rest of the League nodded, one by one, a chain of affirmation and loyalty, it was clear there was no walking this back.
Virginia wasn’t just a lead anymore.
It was a summoning.
And Bruce felt, for the first time in days, the faintest spark of something like anticipation in his chest.
Not relief. Not hope. Something colder and sharpee.
If Cadmus thinks they can play with fire, then it’s time to remind them what burns in the dark.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Emily x Cogita (Overwatch x Pokemon)
Cynthia, Leaf and Green had gotten a nice surprise for Emily, but what was the surprise? First, Emily had to travel to Hisui, Sinnoh's past, with Green, Leaf and Cynthia, something the latter three had already done before. The surprise was actually Cogita, one of Cynthia's common ancestors. Hawt, just like Cynthia. Emily and Cogita had interacted with each other sweetly for a while before they took care of sexual business in Sinnoh, Cynthia's place. French-kissing, eye contact, breast press and ass groping, all simultaneously. Cynthia, Leaf and Green were all turned on by this, with Cynthia groping both Leaf and Green's breasts.
Emily x Juno (Overwatch)
Juno, Mei's niece. Beautiful. Sexy. Gorgeous. Attractive. Cute. Any other synonym related to those words describing Juno. Mei was as extremely attractive as Juno, even though the two weren't blood-related. And speaking of Mei, it was very nice of her to get Slutty Emily and Juno together; their first moment was fantastic, with Emily being double-drilled by Juno's double-strapon dildo. The best part about this was Juno wearing her space helmet.
Emily x Mei x Widowmaker (Overwatch)
Emily had already known that Tracer was going to catch her eventually, and Emily had already known what Tracer's reaction would be like; Tracer was obviously hurt, clinching fists, an angry look and a tear falling from her eye. Emily's reaction? An evil smile on her face, and two middle finger gestures towards saddended Tracer. Furthermore, Mei and Widowmaker, the hawt Overwatch hoes sucking on Emily's nipples while holding her giant titties, didn't give two shits about Tracer walking in on them and Emily.
Tracer finally catching Emily cheating on her was only the real beginning. Prior to this, Emily had told Rosalina that she had wanted Tracer to suffer forever, as a permament cuckquean. And thanks to Rosalina, that was Tracer new and permanent status, as a cuckquean.
A/N: Two Saturdays ago, I was supposed to start this chapter and this next chapter. But unfortunately, I had a sinus drainage infection. I'm 100% better now. Yeah, this chapter is short, but the A/N is like 3x longer.
Anyway, the Croc remaster had a official trailer, longer than the teaser trailer I had mentioned in the previous chapter. Once again, I had cried my heart out. Will a Croc 2 remaster come to life? Hopefully. And if so, the notoriously difficult levels such as the fuckin' Roger Red Ant level will obviously get toned down. I forgot to mention this, but years ago, while I was saying that Croc needed to get remastered, too, I had pointed out that the series was published by Fox Interactive, and that it was succeeded by Vivendi Universal games, in which it had merged into Activision Blizzard, currently owning the Overwatch series. Also, I had mentioned that Croc used to be displayed on lifesaver candy wrappers in real life stores between 1999 and 2002, and that Overwatch characters were displayed on a variety of snacks while I was making that claim around the late 2010s.
Overall, I had predicted the Croc remaster coming to life. However, it's after January 15, 2022, which means the Croc remaster is one of the many good things to happen after the Pokemon x Drawn Together crossover series had ended. For example, the Croc series had begun around 1997, and it was revived in late 2024.
Okay, since today is October 27, 2024, I want to make a rant about the 20-year anniversary of Hot Tub, Drawn Together's very first episode. Weeks before the episode had come to life, the episode was HEAVILY advertised because it had shown Foxxy surprising Clara with a kiss, obvious girl on girl action, and it had shown Xandir, Spanky and Captain Hero reacting to it. Not only that scene, but another common scene the commercials were shown was Foxxy and Clara staring at each other while towering Ling-Ling, Toot, Spanky, Captain Hero, Wooldoor and Xandir with a weird camera shot or whatever the fuck.
https://m.media-amazon.com/images/M/MV5BMTc1MTE3MTU4OV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwOTYxNzIyMjE@._V1_.jpg
Oh, wait! This WWE Bad Blood scene had occurred 20 years later.
https://s.yimg.com/ny/api/res/1.2/c74d_bV.FS6.CUDFvpR7nA--/YXBwaWQ9aGlnaGxhbmRlcjt3PTY0MDtoPTQyNw--/https://s.yimg.com/os/creatr-uploaded-images/2024-09/91a5cac0-8387-11ef-bff3-59430e9b7aa9
Link's long, but fuck it. Anyway, notice the difference? In the WWE-related link, you have arguably one of the greatest rivalries, Drew vs. CM Punk, in the 21st Century, SSS-Tier. The ref, the one between Drew and Punk, in that pic, who was refereeing the entire match, btw, obviously had the best time of his life for being a part of a 5-star classic bloody and emotional match. Compared to that WWE-related pic, the Drawn Together pic with Foxxy and Clara staring at each other looks so fuckin' ridiculous, leading absolutely nowhere. "Oh, but they kissed afterwards!". That Hot Tub episode was nothing but a fuckin' ratings trap. Apparently, the ratings from that episode didn't do much because a lot of viewers had wanted to see the Boston Red Sox's (one of my two baseball teams) first championship since 1918.
Again, the stare down had led to absolutely nowhere. I had made a rant about this as well, but the creators had wanted Foxxy and Clara's complex relationship with each other to be Cartman and Kyle 2.0, and it had failed miserably. What other moments did they have that was "appealing"? "Foxxy and Clara had made out infront of The King, just for the sake of affection!" Fuckin' hate that episode, which aired on November 30th, 2005. Fuckin' November 30th, hate that date. Four years ago, during the fuckin' pandemic, I had finally passed the driver license's knowledge test on my sixth attempt, but guess what happened next? The only scheduled available road test date was fuckin' November 30th, the day that I had my driver's license. Oh, and I forgot to mention this, too, but before I had taken the knowledge test for the sixth time, I had seen someone with an old school Nickelodeon jacket featuring a variety of Nickelodeon characters, which included Susie Carmichael, who shares the same fuckin' voice actor as Foxxy. You can call that foreshadowing or whatever. But on the same November 30th day, someone else was also wearing a old school Nickelodeon jacket, and that jacket also showed the fuckin' character.
Overall, November 30th is a cursed day. I don't want to go through other shit, but let me talk about the upcoming Survivor Series PPV. It begins on fuckin' November 30th, and Punk will probably have a match for the Heavyweight title. I swear, if Punk is booked to lose on November 30th, I'm gonna be extremely pissed off.
Anyway, did Foxxy and Clara have other "moments"? "They took a shower together!" Yeah, only to be interrupted by Toot, then Hero. "Foxxy gave Clara a tampon!" That's shortly after a fuckin' confederate flag was shown on top of the Foxxy 5 van, which says a lot about Foxxy. "They kissed again during the second-half of Season 3!" But both were double-murdered by Hero afterwards. "They had played guitar together while being naked infront of everybody!" DT as a whole got canned afterwards. And what did they do during the movie? Absolutely fuck all. That sums up the Foxxy and Clara complex relatioship shit being an overall failure.
Eighteen years ago, there were some complaints about Hero being the main focal point throughout Season 2 and the first half of Season 3 to a lesser extent. If fuckin' Foxxy and Clara's complex relationship were focused throughout Season 2 instead, Season 3 would've NEVER existed, and the movie would've NEVER existed as well. Wait, why did Drawn Together get cancelled in the first place? Obvious favoritism from Comedy Central, preferring South Park to be the #1 adult animated show over Drawn Together. The creators had even admitted to this during the commentary from the Drawn Together movie. Also, they had admitted that they had wanted to be like South Park, proving that they had tried way too hard for Foxxy and Clara to become Cartman and Kyle 2.0.
Continuing on, the hilarious part about this is that Family Guy, whose creator had a relationship with the Drawn Together creators from 2006 to 2010, is CURRENTLY on the Comedy Central lineup, and the show is still pulling out new episodes. You can call it backstabbing, betrayal, whatever, even though CC is desperate for more viewers from other successful shows besides South Park. Another hilarious part is that the creators of South Park obviously despises Family Guy, even though they do not wish for it to get cancelled, and that they respect Family Guy and its team for earning many views throughout the years while making more money.
Anyway, I've seen other stare down pics that are better. After I had completed Final Fantasy 7, the original version, I had seen a comedic pic of Shera and Sephiroth angrily staring at each other, with a nervous and scared Cid in the middle. That pic is way, way better. Yeah, call me a FF7 fanboy, whatever, but again, it's way, way better. What else is better? Ah, yes. A Super Smash Bros. pic of Kazooie and Mythra angrily staring at each other, with them towering Banjo, Pyra, Sephiroth and Pichu; both Banjo and Pyra are scared and nervous, while both Sephiroth and Pichu are enjoying it while eating popcorn. Oh, and I want mention this, too. Ten years ago, I think, someone had made an angry stare down pic between Ryuko and Satsuki while the two were goosing each other's breasts.
Way, way back in January of 2024, an epic angry stare down between Cody and Punk had happened during an episode of RAW, and that stare down is also better. The Captain America: Civil War theatrical release poster had both sides having a stare down, and although I think the movie is overrated, the stare down poster is better as well. I've already revealed a link of Drew and Punk's stare down during the Bad Blood PPV. Pokemon-related, both Blanche and Candela had a hot stare down while Spark's in the middle drink a beverage. One more thing, this was mentioned in a previous chapter, but Scarlet and Madam M had a friendly stare down, with it being sexual.
Finishing the stare down topic, the first ones to save a pic of the Foxxy and Clara stare down scene was a lesbian-related website, with the Comedy Central logo, an older version mind you, being attached to Foxxy on the below-right corner. The main initials, CC, pisses me off as a Final Fantasy 7 fan, a Crash Bandicoot series fan, an Overwatch fan and other things. Example, Cid's my #1 favorite FF7 character while Cloud's my #3 favorite, they're arguably the two most powerful characters to use in the original version while possessing triple AP growth weapons and they, along with Tifa and Yuffie, will become focal characters during remake Part 3. Also, the "Y" letter from the word "Comedy" pisses me off as well because Cid, Yuffie and Cloud are my mandatory picks as a team in the original, and I'm planning on having them as a mandatory team in Part 3.
Furthermore, CC is also Crash and Coco's initials. The term "CC" in the Overwatch universe means that it disrupts anyone's moment for a couple of seconds depending on the attack. Cow and Chicken, an underrated Cartoon Network show, also possesses the CC initials. Christian Cage, wrestling-related, too. Close Combat, a Pokemon-related move, as well. Oh, and Mario and Luigi, both initials under CoMedy CentraL, is also another reason. Oh, and some Mario games, notably Super Mario World and Super Mario 64, some enemies can CC (Overwatch-related attacks) you, a thing that speedrunnners hate.
Anyway, there's my rant for the 20th year Anniversary of the Hot Tub bullshit. BTW, most people's AU (porn pics, fanfiction, SFW content, whatever) had Foxxy and Clara as a lesbian couple. But under my AU, a lot of it, Foxxy is commonly depicted as a self-hated cunt bitch while tagging along Clara and The King (as partners/friends or lovers depending on the plot), and the three are commonly killed off permanently. The three are already dead in previous storylines, and they are gonna die for real under the A Special Journey: Remake. I'm out.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Sansa brushed Rickon’s curls away from his cheek as he slept. She couldn’t bear to look away from his face, afraid he’d disappear if she did. Her throat was thick with tears. She stayed sitting on the side of the bed.
“He’s half wild.” Jon sat in the chair by the fire. The warmth and security of his presence, a balm to the room.
She smiled, memories of her tiny brother biting anyone who held him too long. “He always was, like Arya was.” Which he was as old as Arya had been when they’d left for King’s Landing. They’d all been so young.
“Aye, he always was a biter wasn’t he?” Jon chuckled. “He won’t be parted from the woman who’s raised him. Her name’s Osha.”
Sansa didn’t consider that an issue. “She’ll be given a position in the household. I’d give her anything she wanted for keeping him alive.”
“He can’t read, or write.” Jon looked uncomfortable. “We’ll have to protect him or the Lords will eat him alive. They won’t like he’s Wildling raised.”
Sansa’s brow furrowed as she looked back to her baby brother. “He needs a regent, will need one for years to come.” She bit the inside of her lip as she thought through the issues they’d face with a boy Lord. It wouldn’t be easy. But between her and Jon they could do it. “We can protect him. If the three of us don’t allow them to turn us against each other we can do it.”
“So what, you’re regent and I lead our armies for you?” He just looked tired. “Once we’ve retaken Moat Calin we can turn our attention to the dead.”
Sansa knew he wasn’t going to like what came next. “No, we can’t.”
“What are you talking about? That’s the last hold of Frey or Bolton men in the North.” Jon was wary then, a look she didn’t like to see on his face.
She kept her voice soft to avoid waking Rickon. Not that she thought he would wake for anything short of yelling. The deep even breaths raising and lowering his chest reassured her he was deeply asleep. “We need the united North to stand a chance. Am I wrong?”
“The North will be united with the last of the Bolton forces gone. They’ll follow House Stark, they’re good and loyal men.” Jon’s voice was pained and so incredibly sure he spoke the truth.
Sansa refused to allow her brother’s idiotic idealism get them killed. “We cannot afford to have our own men turn on us. If we ignore treachery and forgive wrongs done to us we’ll look weak. The North won’t follow a weak leader.”
“So what, you want to attack the Karstarks, Ryswells, and Dustins? Add to the death. We can’t fight three of our own Houses and the dead and the South.”
“No we can’t.” She straightened her skirts. “I’m not a soldier but if our home is not in order we’ll face enemies without as well as within.”
Jon hands fisted over his knees. “We’ll earn their loyalty with mercy.”
“Our ancestors didn’t win the North with mercy. The Ironthrone wasn’t forged with mercy, father didn’t win the rebellion with mercy. Did your mercy earn your brothers’ loyalty Jon? Because they stabbed you.”
He breathed out slowly. “What are you planning?”
“We offer terms to House Dustin and House Ryswell that will strengthen our position and ensure in the coming war they have no choice but to fight the dead.” Sansa knew the next part would be what Jon would oppose the most. But it was the most needed. “And House Karstark cannot be allowed to continue. They’re the greatest threat to our position, they abandoned Robb, those who stayed fought side by side with the Boltons.”
Jon stared at her, his face solemn. “You mean to make an entire house extinct.”
“I’ve already spoken to the Umbers. They’ve agreed to send their forces to join a group of men led by you to take the Karhold. Lord Mandery and the Flints have agreed to ensure our army remains large enough to handle the Dustins and Ryswells.” Sansa’s voice remained matter of fact. She needed Jon to lead their army after all. It wasn’t something she could lie or hide from him.
He shook his head. “Does my opinion even matter?”
“Yes, but I’ll do it myself if I have to.”
////
Jon’s fist slammed into the stone wall as he breathed heavily as the door to the cellar closed behind him. It’d been the only place he’d be able to avoid others. And he just...what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t leave his last living sister and brother. But what Sansa was planning was...it would just bring more pointless death. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a throat clearing.
“So...hi?” A very bemused sounding Daisy greeted.
He stared at where the god was perched in one corner with a lantern and a book. “What are you doing in here?”
“I mean you’re here too.” She pointed out, eyes twinkling in the low light. “But I don’t know if you’ve noticed but everyone thinks I’m a god. It’s nice to get away. You?”
He splayed his hand across his face, closing his eyes and just groaned. “Do you know what my sister plans?”
“Uh probably?” Daisy set her book aside.
Jon walked over and dropped onto some grain sacks near her. “Destroying House Karstark and marching on House Ryswell and Dustin.”
“Ah, yeah I knew about that. It was pretty obvious she intended to from like...before you left? This is news to you?” She looked genuinely confused.
He scoffed. “I really do know nothing.”
“You clearly know how to keep your hair super clean and pretty. Just saying.” She held up her hands in mock surrender at his glare.
Jon couldn’t help it then, he huffed. “Yes well, thanks?”
“You're welcome.” Daisy shifted so her legs were folded under her. “Wanna like talk about it?”
He stared at her and well...what did it matter to a god? And wasn’t prayer talking to gods? If there was an appropriate person to ask advice from, it was this god. “None of this matters except for the dead. It’s the only battle that matters. All the rest...we don’t have time or the resources to lose.”
“Ah, yeah I’ve been there.” She leaned back against the wall. “You want to do the right thing, the good thing.”
Jon was relieved she understood what he meant. “It’s the only way forward. Once they know the threat is the dead it won’t matter if they like us or not, they’ll fight.”
“People aren’t organizations.” Daisy hummed, her fingers playing at the hem of one of her sleeves. “People can be good, and do the right thing, the smart thing. Organizations like your Houses...eh?” Her voice pitched up and she wiggled a hand.
It was….he didn’t understand almost any of what she’d just said. Which she spoke so oddly. Her meaning was...mostly understandable? He frowned. “You believe Sansa is right, the Lords won’t come when called, even for the Long Night.”
“You people prize your stubborn pride. And your sister is showing mercy.” Daisy unfolded herself, feet hitting the ground. She held out her hand to him. “Come on.”
He hesitated, but reached out and took her hand. Jon barely kept from reacting at how easily she hauled him to his feet. “Strong grip.”
“Yeah I’m still getting used to that.” Daisy shrugged. “Come on.”
Jon quietly followed behind her as she led him through the halls. He recognized they were moving towards the Maester’s chambers. He frowned, wondering at what she wanted to show him. But he held his tongue. As they reached the several rooms set aside for the seriously ill he realized there was a guard standing before one of the doors.
The guard straightened at the sight of them. "Your Holiness, Lord Stark!"
Jon opened his mouth to correct the man, he was a Snow not a Stark. He wheezed as the god’s elbow slammed into his gut.
She smiled pleasantly. "Hogg, why don't you go find some more bruise cream for the men. I'll remain till you get back."
"Oh course Holiness." He bowed before scurrying off.
Jon raised a brow, that was concerning the men answered to this god so automatically. He'd have to look into that. For now though, he curiously followed the god into the room.
It was a small room, though cozy, a fire in the hearth and a large rug on the floor. It was furnished simply but nothing was in ill repair. In the middle of the room was a cradle. Daisy easily walked to the cradle and lifted the swaddled babe. She poked its nose with a gentle flick, before turning towards him as she cradled the babe.
She looked at him as she held the rosy cheeked child. "This is Torrhen Bolton."
Jon’s breath froze in his throat, he knew exactly who this child was then and he...he couldn't hate the babe. He doubted he was capable of that. It was a healthy looking babe though, it's clear blue eyes blinking at him. "I see."
"Walda was escorted to White Harbor and from there will be taken to the silent sisters. Of course she was given two weeks to recover some before she was removed." Daisy shifted the babe so that it was against her chest and began to bounce slightly as she rubbed its back. “I believe your sister intends for the Mormonts to take this little guy once he's big enough to travel."
Jon stepped closer. He carefully held out a hand, touching a single finger to the babe's cheek. He understood why he'd been shown this mercy then. "Thank you."
"Anytime." Daisy hummed as she carefully made an odd rocking movement to lull the babe back to sleep. "And as someone who nearly got two of my best friends killed because I couldn't kill a traitor, once a traitor willing to kill friends pretty much dependably traitor for life."
“The dead are coming. How can that not be enough for us to put aside our grievances with each other? None of it matters. Just the living and the dead.” Jon’s hands tightened as he stared at the ground.
Daisy gave his statement real thought before answering. “People aren’t logical, not really. When your sister thought I was going to kill her she stabbed Ramsy thirty seven times. You’ve died and still are going to fight anyways. Logic isn’t...it’s not why we do things. Not really. I wanted to ‘save the world’, but I ended up just trying to save the people I loved.”
“If you’re right then there is no hope.” Jon stared into the fire, the light flickering as it warmed the room in a way he never felt in his bones any longer.
She huffed. “I’m saying you should listen to your sister. She’s trying to help you save the world, just with a lot less faith in the goodness of mankind.” Daisy caught his eye as he looked up. “She’s named you Jon Stark, you know?”
“What? But…” Jon trailed off as he swallowed down the jolt of emotion. His sister didn’t have the authority to legitimize him. But if she’d been naming him a Stark before Rickon’s return...it meant she’d risked her right to Winterfell, for him. Because she cared. Jon hesitated to leave. "If I may, I believe I need to speak with my sister."
"Go, I've got baby B." Her lips twitched. "Babies are easy. 'Sides, I'm good with them."
His face was soft as he looked at them. "Thank you."
"Anytime." She raised a hand, wiggling her fingers. "Now shoo."
Jon paused in front of Sansa’s room. He sighed, and then raised his hand and knocked softly on the door. He opened the door and let himself in, he knew Sansa would still be awake. His mouth tightened slightly as he saw her bent over missives at their father’s desk. Rickon still sleeping in her bed. She also very pointedly wasn’t looking up.
He closed the door behind him. Walking towards her desk he took the seat in front of it. “Alright, explain it to me. I’ll listen properly this time.”
“Why should I believe you?” Sansa looked up from her writing at him.
Jon sighed. “Because I can be an idiot. But you’re my sister, and I know you wouldn’t want to play politics if it wasn’t important.”
Sansa set her quill down. “We can’t rule like father or Robb did. The world’s changed and they couldn’t survive it. Our grandfather, uncle and aunt couldn’t survive it.”
“You mean to take us back to how the Starks of old ruled.” Jon leaned back in his seat. They were of one of the oldest bloodlines in all of Westeros. He wasn’t a fool, he’d heard the lessons of Brandon the Builder, The Night’s King, Brandon the Breaker, King Theon Stark, the men who’d crushed the other Kings of the North through entire houses wiped off the map. There was a reason they’d been the Kings of Winter and it hadn’t been their honor, or their mercy. “Sansa…” He felt heavy as he accepted she was likely right.
She raised a brow. “It was how our house brought our people through the first Long Night.”
“Sansa...the men all call me Stark.” It hadn’t really struck him till Daisy had informed him, but it was true. It wasn’t just a few small folk mistaking things they knew little about.
“You are a Stark, the oldest living son of Eddard Stark.” Her chin tipped up ever so slightly as if daring him to argue with her.
He couldn’t...it meant everything. “You don’t have the power to legitimize me.”
“Who will stop me?” Sansa’s brow rose ever so slightly. “I say you’re a Stark and we have a god around somewhere who will sign a document legitimizing you if we ask.” She paused slightly. “We should ensure we do that. Not even the King can contradict a god.”
Perhaps if he hadn’t died, hollowing him out. Or perhaps if he hadn’t already spent his tears at the sight of Rickon and his sister safe in his arms in Winterfell, he’d have cried. It’d been his dream since he was a boy to bear the name of Stark. But it wasn’t that that made his heart feel like it’d swollen in his chest. It was that it meant Sansa trusted him enough for this. Perhaps not as they should trust each other, but in her own way. “Alright. What do we need to do?”
////
Rickon’s eyes flicked up the walkway above the yard to where his sister stood where once he thought his father and mother had stood. His eyes returned to where Jon was standing. He bounced on his toes, raising his sword. His blood was up at the chance to fight his brother. His lips pulled back, baring his teeth. And then he lunged forward.
Jon blocked and then knocked him back. “You don’t have the strength to overpower me yet.”
Rickon grinned and bounced forward, swinging his sword upwards. As Jon’s sword struck his, he grabbed Jon’s sword hand. He lunged over the swords, teeth bared for his brother.
Jon’s hand grabbed him by the front of his clothes and tossed him back. “Defend, don’t just attack.” He approached then swung his sword in easy strikes.
Stumbling, arms shaking from the force of it, Rickon skidded around the ground. Ducking and jumping he tried to circle his brother for a chance to attack at his back. Sweating, he slid under Jon’s strike, then leaping for him teeth bared, in an attempt to stab him with a dulled dagger. He’d had to drop his sword for the chance.
Jon grabbed his dagger holding hand. Bringing his sword to Rickon’s throat. “Yield.”
“I yield.” Rickon slumped.
Jon chuckled, letting him go and ruffled Rickon’s hair. “Better.”
Rickon’s chest puffed up as he basked under his brother’s approval. He grinned at his older brother, he’d proved he was useful. “Can we go again?”
“In a bit, watch the others first. You’ll learn watching them.” Jon gently pushed him to a sawhorse where some of the men were watching. He turned to Mors Umber. “What about you my Lord?”
Mors grabbed an axe, striding towards Jon. “Aye, I’ll try fighting you.”
Rickon hopped up on the sawhorse. He frowned, nose twitching as something he couldn’t parse out drifted past his nose. His eyes went up to where Sansa was still watching from the walkway above them. He smiled, and let himself fade into Shaggydog. It was safe to investigate the strange smell.
His paws padded across the ground as he loped through the field outside the walls of Winterfell. It was both his home and not his home. Claws digging into the earth, he pressed his nose near the earth as he made his way through the gates, ignoring the guards. As his nose snuffled at the inside of the yard he could smell it better. It was some creature he’d never smelt before. It was similar enough to human that when he was just Rickon he might not have noticed it properly.
But as Rickon who was also Shaggydog? As this him he could smell the differences. There was something fundamentally different about the scent from human scent. The familiar scent of Osha distracted him. He trotted towards his female pack member. Bumping his head against her hand.
“What are you doing in there Little Wolf?” Osha looked at him knowingly as she scratched behind one ear.
His tongue lulled as he enjoyed the quick scratch. He then broke away, back after the strange smell. It had a burn to it...like the scent from just before lightning struck mixed with coal. So faint though, nearly human. Maybe someone had rolled in coal a few days ago? Best check though, if it was a threat he wouldn’t have it in their home. His body was safe, this strange smell needed locating.
As he padded around men, sniffing the air he realized he was closing in on where his body was. Coming to the edge of the fighting ring he saw Jon and Mors battling in the yard. Jon winning with amazing skill at the sword. It was incredible to see. But a flash of something he didn’t recognize caught his eye besides his body.
With a gasp his body that was just Rickon’s head snapped to the side. Where a person was leaning against the sawhorse he was seated on. His eyes widened as he looked at her. “You’re not human.”
She laughed, eyes bright and amused. “No I’m not.” The not human held out her hand. “My name’s Daisy.”
“Rickon.” He hesitantly took her hand squeezed, a furrow in his brow. Was this how Southerners greeted each other? “What are you?”
Daisy’s laughter continued as she warmly squeezed his hand. Then instead of releasing his hand, she held his and suddenly from his hand traveling all the way to the tips of his toes to the top of his head was buzzing with...something.
“Wha…” His mouth opened in confusion.
She released his hand, the buzzing vanishing as it’d come. “You should be watching your brother, not me.”
His cheeks burned as his head snapped back to the fight. Rickon couldn’t help it, his human mouth smiling at the sight of Jon knocking Mors on his arse. He remembered watching a younger Jon fighting Robb in the yard. In his home, by his siblings’ it felt like pack.
“Your brother is an amazing swordsman.” Daisy remarked casually
Rickon frowned as he was reminded of the not human. He looked at her, lips pulling back, low growl in the back of his throat. “I won’t let you hurt my family.”
“Then it’s a good thing I consider your sister a friend. And probably your brother as well given more time around his pouting.” Daisy nudged his attention back to where Mors and Jon were going again. “They’re good people.”
Rickon, focused on the fight. His brother was a wolf, watching, waiting and then striking. “You better be telling the truth.”
“You can ask your brother when he’s done kicking their butts. Look at how he’s controlling the fight.” She narrated. “He draws him in, and then attacks.”
Rickon watched as Jon did just that, deflecting an axe blow only to step forward punching Mors in the face. “How do I beat him then?”
“You don’t.” Daisy chuckled. “Not yet, you don’t commit to an attack unless you know it’ll hit.”
He nodded, he could do that. “What else?”
“You’re smaller than him. You won’t beat him with a sword. He’s got you on reach.” She flipped a knife over in her fingers before passing it hilt forward over. “Try to get close. Swords are harder to use up close.”
Rickon looked at her and then nodded. “Thanks.” Hopping off the sawhorse he waited for Mors to hit the ground again. He darted forward. “Can I try again now?”
Mors laughed loudly, the sound booming outwards. “Boy’s got the wolf’s blood!”
“Aye, he does.” Jon chuckled looking at him with so much affection it filled Rickon full to bursting. “Alright, let’s see if you learned anything from Mors here. But then we’re going in to eat or our sister will have my head for starving you.”
Rickon laughed brightly as he hung onto his brother’s back. “I’ll beat you.”
“I’m sure you will.” Jon huffed fondly. “You need some practice first.”
He buried his nose into the fur rough of Jon’s cloak, burying his smile in the tickling of it against his skin. He was home.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Corypheus had wrenched my arm from its socket and crushed my wrist in his hand. The pain was blinding, and I hadn’t a potion to spare. It felt like days of stumbling in the darkness of the mountain and trudging through waist-deep snow. There were no stars to guide me or landmarks along the path, but my mark— the Anchor, he called it— sputtered dark magic that seemed to drag me through the night.
And then there was Cullen, scooping me into his arms, and Cassandra somewhere near to whisper her prayer of thanks. After that, it was nothing but blackness and fitful sleep, the sense of drowning and falling, pulling but never feeling free. It was anger and fear and panic swirling all around, but a warm hand on my brow when I woke.
I was not expecting Mother Giselle, but there she was. She turned away every panicked thought with a gentle word, quelled my blasphemy by abstracting belief until there was room enough for us both. And when the memory of Corypheus threatened to overwhelm me once more, she sang.
I thought it a sort of lullaby, then Leliana’s voice joined in, her scheming and violence set aside for something sweet and pure. I recalled that she’d once been a Chantry sister, then realized the song must be part of the Chant. Cullen lifted his broken voice, which emboldened the soldiers and pulled the whole camp into song.
It was haunting and beautiful, raw shemlen worship that left me on the outside looking in. Then my stomach churned as, one by one, the people began falling at my feet. Comfort slipped away and I was alone in standing; these were not my people, not my songs, not my gods, not my home. Please get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up…
I was paralyzed. The last time an elf dared to tread in matters of human faith, they’d cut of his ears and burned him on a pyre. Shartan was no hero among the Dalish, but a cautionary tale: do not get involved.
When it all closed in around me, there was a sharp voice from behind.
“A word.”
My heart lurched again. I hadn’t seen Solas since we were parted at the trebuchets in Haven, and instead of a warm greeting he was briskly leaving camp. I grabbed my staff and rushed after him— if his instincts were anything like mine, then it was time for two elven mages to be gone. This was a tightrope we could not walk.
Then I noticed his gait was relaxed. Confident, even swaggering, as he took me to a small grove and lit a veilfire torch. When he spoke, his tone was unlike anything I'd heard from him before, as if I were an equal and not a wayward child.
“The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting. Her faith is hard won, lethallin, worthy of pride."
Lethallin
, one of his kinsmen. I did not fail to notice that he’d never called me that before. Away from prying eyes, he stood every inch an elf. More than an elf, the way a prince is more than a man— noble. And somehow he was
proud
that a ragged crowd of terrified shemlen had bowed at my feet to heap their unwanted faith on my shoulders. It was a look I'd never seen in anyone.
The man who had treated his elven nature as something no more important than the color of his eyes then spoke of “our" people and “our" gods. And then he brought me into his confidence; the orb was "ours" too. It was exactly the sort of revelation that could bend reverence to violence, but he was prepared.
“We must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies.”
We.
At the time he sounded so wise, and it wasn’t until much, much later that I'd realize he wasn’t talking about me at all.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
‘Are we keeping you up?’
Stifling his yawn behind his fingers, Suguru offers Shōko a sheepish grin. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, waving a hand at the late afternoon sunshine. ‘Can’t sleep in this heat.’
It isn’t a lie, exactly. Even with a fan blowing directly onto his near naked body, Suguru found himself tossing and turning in bed last night. However, it wasn’t the tropical temperatures that kept him awake as much as the vivid image of fire bursting from the tips of Satoru’s long fingers, playing in his memory on a loop.
Heat of a different kind then.
Satoru had managed to avoid detention by the skin of his teeth. When they’d returned to school the evening before, teleporting directly into the dorms to avoid a telling off, they’d discovered Yaga already waiting for them. In the uncomfortably warm weather, their grumpy principal was even grumpier than usual, drumming his fingers against the table as they burst into the kitchen.
In the end, it turned out he was more upset that they’d disappeared without notice than he was about the fact Satoru had forgone a curtain at Mount Bukō. Apparently, two missing Special Grades caused him far more bother than an unexplained mining explosion on an epic scale, though Suguru got the sense that Yaga’s private concern was the issue, rather than any pressure from the higher ups. Admittedly, Suguru felt a little guilty that he’d wasted his evening worrying about them, even if his face softened when Satoru explained where they’d been.
Stranger than that,
Satoru
seemed to feel a little guilty, too. He hung his head as he apologised, promising he’d act more responsibly in the future. And the weirdest thing of all?
Suguru doesn’t even think he was lying just to get out of detention.
‘Does Satoru seem different to you?’
The question earns him a raised eyebrow. Snapping her gum against her teeth — she’s given up smoking again. It’s a four month streak, the longest yet — Shōko fires back a question of her own.
‘Different how?’
There’s an undertone to it that Suguru doesn’t exactly like. He turns away from where she’s leaned up against the railing next to him, looking out across the little courtyard to where Satoru is terrorising the children. Cackling as he chases them over the stones, he sends gravel scattering across the paving slabs, painting streaks onto the hot granite with the jet from his water gun.
He looks perfectly demonic. And still, Suguru feels it.
‘I don’t know,’ he says, gaze catching on the flex of Satoru’s long legs as they power him around the courtyard. Honestly, the kids haven’t got a chance. ‘I just feel like he’s grown up or something.’
For a long moment, Shōko says nothing. Punctuated by Tsumiki’s shrieks of joy, the silence stretches on until Suguru wonders if she’s even listening. He glances at her — and finds his answer in the knowing curve of her lips.
‘I don’t think he’s different, no,’ she says, voice conspicuously light. And Suguru’s having none of that.
‘Be serious.’ He wraps his hands around the warm wood of the railing, leaning back to look at her properly. ‘You can’t see anything different about him at all?’
Shōko doesn’t flinch. ‘Like what?’ she asks, with a casual detachment belied by the twinkle in her eye. ‘Give me an example.’
She’s been growing her hair out, but it’s still brushing her shoulders. Half of it is falling out of the bun she’s tied to keep her hair off her neck, and Suguru thinks it looks good, actually. Thinks it might suit him, too.
For now, however, he almost wishes he’d left his own hair loose, if only to hide the way his cheeks warm under her shrewd gaze. Not for the first time this week, Suguru feels thankful for the excuse of the heatwave.
‘Like the fact that he got really tall.’
‘He’s always been really tall.’
‘Fine, but he’s—’ Suguru bites his lip. He definitely can’t say Satoru is ripped. Shouldn’t even
mention
his muscles if he wants to make it out of this conversation in one piece. Still, his eyes linger on the solid swell of Satoru’s biceps where the sleeves of his baggy T-shirt ride up. ‘He’s
strong
now.’
That earns him a snort. ‘He’s
definitely
always been that, too.’
Suguru throws his hands up, unreasonably irritated by her dismissal of what are obvious changes in their friend. It’s probably the heat. He’s always been prone to irritation in the heat.
‘I don’t know why I’m bothering if you’re just going to…’
He trails off, because over on the other side of the little courtyard, Megumi has slowed to a stop in the middle of the gravel. He’s soaking, giving the overall impression of an angry wet kitten where he stands there, water dripping from the ends of his unruly black hair. With his mean scowl and his little fist clenched around the grip of his water pistol, he looks a lot like his father. Disturbingly so.
That doesn’t deter Satoru, who notices his frown immediately. Calling to Tsumiki for a timeout, he jogs over to the little boy, crouching down in the gravel to meet his gaze.
‘What’s up, buddy?’
Even shaped into something soft and gentle, Satoru’s voice is audible from across the courtyard. Suguru finds himself holding his breath to listen.
‘It isn’t fair,’ Megumi grumbles, digging his toe into the stones. Suguru has to agree with him. His feet must be soaked wet through inside his little rubber shoes, whereas Satoru remains dry as a bone — save for the patches of sweat where his T-shirt sits snug against his shoulder blades. ‘What’s the point in a water fight if we can’t get you back?’
Satoru is silent for a moment, staring down at the hole Megumi is making in the gravel, dangling his super soaker from his long fingers. Suguru can tell he’s thinking hard about his next words.
‘Fights are rarely fair, Megumi,’ he eventually says. ‘Especially against me.’
At once, Megumi’s gaze darts up to meet Satoru’s. It’s piercing — so piercing that Suguru almost winces on Satoru’s behalf. ‘So is that what this is? Training?’
Now, Suguru
does
wince on Satoru’s behalf.
Fushiguro Megumi is only six years old, a little younger than the twins, but he’s already almost scarily switched on. His technique manifested over the summer, and Satoru says the boy has strength that will rival his own one day. It’s what separates the pair of them from every other sorcerer Suguru knows.
Unlike the twins — unlike
Suguru
— Megumi and Satoru are tethered to the jujutsu world by their lineage, by a once in a quincentenary technique that makes them prizes more than people. Of course, no one can
really
make Gojō Satoru do anything these days. That’s how Suguru knows that Satoru stays out of a sense of duty. He’d find it admirable, if not for how quickly Satoru had acted when he saw a different child afflicted by the same fate. Now, it just makes him desperately sad.
Half the reason Suguru has seen so little of Satoru over the summer is because he’s been in and out of meetings with the Zen’in clan, negotiating Megumi’s future on his behalf. It’s cruel, really. There’s no feasible outcome that’s fair on the boy. Not unless Satoru grinds the entire Zen’in clan to dust under his heel.
And he could do it, too. Satoru could reshape the entire world with a wave of his hand if he wanted to. Cast his judgement in blue, red, and purple; herald deliverance with the last and most spectacular firework show humanity would ever witness.
It had taken some time for Suguru to see things from Satoru’s perspective. To accept that relieving young sorcerers of an injustice by force is an injustice all by itself. Perhaps the most terrible injustice of them all.
Still, the fact remains that no matter how much Satoru tries to preserve his agency, little Megumi remains too young to make decisions about his own life. So, Satoru has taken the least worst option. And Suguru watches him wrestle with it every single day.
‘No,’ Satoru finally sighs. ‘No, it’s play.’
Over his shoulder, Tsumiki hovers, wringing her damp summer dress between her fingers as she looks on with wide eyes. They’ll have to dry her off and fix her hair before she returns to her mother. For some reason, the usually unflappable Gojō Satoru harbours this entirely irrational worry that she’ll revoke permission for their weekly playdates if he’s anything less than the perfect chaperone.
Truthfully, Suguru thinks he’s already going above and beyond on that front — Tsumiki’s mother is making leaps and bounds with the support of the Gojō clan — but honouring the only condition a four year old Megumi had made remains at the top of Satoru’s priority list, even after the Zen’in clan started giving him a hard time.
‘It’s
supposed
to be play, anyway,’ Satoru says, laying his super soaker in the gravel and slapping his hands against his thighs. Even from across the courtyard, Suguru can tell that where Infinity has fallen, Satoru remains. Satoru and his thousand kilowatt grin, roguish but fond as he peers at the little boy. ‘We’re supposed to be having fun, but you’re right.’ Reaching up, he pinches Megumi’s cheek. ‘I guess it’s not much fun if you’re the only ones getting wet. I’m sorry, pal.’
For the second time in twenty four hours, Suguru hears a genuine apology spilling from Satoru’s lips — and his own lips part at the sound of it.
‘Do you want to stop?’
At once, Megumi shakes his head, hugging his water pistol tight to his chest. Then, Satoru does something that makes Suguru gasp. Pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, he throws his arms out wide, his expression open and sincere as he looks the little boy in the eyes.
‘Do you want a hug?’ he asks gently. ‘Truce and try again?’
And, to Suguru’s immense surprise, Megumi actually nods. Wearing this adorable little pout on his lips, he steps between Satoru’s legs and throws his arms around his neck, squeezing tight to him. Watching as Satoru gathers the six year old into his embrace, strong arms folding around his tiny frame, Suguru feels warm from the top of his head to the tips of his toes — and he’d already been overheating.
‘Like
that
,’ he says, voice barely more than a hushed whisper.
Suguru knows how he sounds, but he can’t find it in him to tear his gaze away from the sweet scene playing out on the other side of the courtyard. Their hair blends together, white on black, and for one heart-stopping second, Suguru is grateful to Fushiguro Toji. He’s grateful that the piece of shit entrusted Megumi to Satoru before he died. He’s grateful that they found one another, that they can help one another.
At his side, Suguru hears a thoughtful hum. Then, Shōko slips an arm around his back, careless of his sweaty shirt as she rests her head against his shoulder. When she speaks, all of the teasing tone from before is a distant memory.
‘Maybe you’re the one who’s different.’
Suguru has always been aware of Satoru. And Satoru has always been aware of everyone else. He’s extraordinarily perceptive in ways people don’t always realise. It isn’t even a Six Eyes thing either. It’s a Satoru thing.
Satoru has always been aware. He’s always cared.
‘You little shit!’
Suguru is jerked from his daydreams by Satoru’s boyish shout of alarm, followed by fits of childish giggles. He blinks at where Megumi has apparently pulled a fast one on Gojō Satoru of all people, yanking at the collar of his T-shirt and emptying his entire pistol down Satoru’s back under the guise of giving him a hug.
‘Was that an act?’ Satoru sounds overjoyed — overjoyed to have been outwitted by a six year old, even as he falls flat on his ass in the gravel. ‘A little performance to make me let my guard down? Is that what it was?’
Suguru’s heart sings in harmony with Tsumiki’s laughter, falling like droplets over the sizzling hot paving stones as she showers Satoru with jets of water. Scrambling to his feet with little care for how it sends his sunglasses falling from his head with a clatter, Satoru can barely contain his grin.
‘You little shits!’
Megumi is already making his getaway, but Satoru is on him in three long strides, scooping him up under the armpits and hoisting him into the air. With Megumi’s back pressed to his chest, he swings him round and round the courtyard, sending his little rubber shoes flying across the gravel.
‘A strong sorcerer doesn’t need to reveal his hand!’
Suguru swears he’s never seen Satoru look as proud as he does in this moment, crowing as his own teachings are thrown back in his face. He swears he’s never seen Megumi laugh this much either. He’s never seen Megumi laugh at
all
when he thinks about it. Letting out a shriek of delight at the sight, Tsumiki abandons her pistol for Satoru’s super soaker, drenching the pair of them from a safe distance — at least until Satoru goes after her, too.
Crowding her against the flagging chrysanthemums in the corner of the courtyard, he clutches Megumi to his body and shakes his soaking wet hair over Tsumiki like a dog, cackling when his mini-me follows suit. Looking on, Shōko laughs softly. Tucked against the wall with his book, even Nanami spares a smile for the sight. And Suguru?
Suguru is reduced to one of the puddles at their feet, evaporating into the sweet summer sunshine.
Maybe you’re the one who’s different
.
He’s a clown, Suguru’s best friend, but he’s always cared about others. In the moments where it really matters, he always takes responsibility, if only so someone else doesn’t have to bear the weight of it. Satoru has always cared.
It’s how Suguru knows that, despite it all — despite the unfairness of it all — Satoru will always be a jujutsu sorcerer. He’ll always do the right thing. He’ll try, at least. Beneath all the swagger, he’s a good man.
And Suguru wonders what it’ll look like. He wonders what this man will look like five, ten, fifteen years from now. Because as Satoru turns his smile to Suguru from across the courtyard, caught in all the colours of the rainbow thrown up by the water droplets, one thing is clear.
As Suguru stares at the square of his jaw, the bulk of his muscles where his wet T-shirt clings to them — the surprising gentleness with which he handles the little boy bundled into his arms, most of all — one thing is undeniable.
Gojō Satoru is a man now.
But Suguru has always been aware. And Satoru has
always
been beautiful.
‘Yeah,’ he hears himself saying. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Babylon Five Smut - Chapter 15 - Anonymous - Babylon 5 (TV 1993) [Archive of Our Own]
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Chapter Index
Chapter Index
1. Table of Contents
2. Delenn/Sheridan
3. Delenn/Lyta Alexander-oral sex
4. Marcus/Neroon-anal sex
5. Marcus/Susan- Oral Sex
6. Stephen Franklin/G'Kar- Anal sex+Handjob
7. Talia/Susan/Marcus
8. Delenn/Sheridan/Lennier- oral sex+fingering+sex
9. Delenn/Susan Ivanova/Lyta Alexander- Oral sex
10. Neroon/Marcus- anal sex
11. Stephen Franklin/Marcus- oral sex
12. G'Kar/Lyta- Oral sex
13. Susan Ivanova/Delenn Mer! AU
14. Delenn/Neroon- Rimming+sex+Handjob
15. G'Kar/Marcus- Dildo (anal)
16. Delenn/Lennier- oral sex
17. Susan Ivanova- masturbation
18. Neroon/Marcus- Intimacy during injury/disabilit...
19. Sheridan/Delenn- sex
20. Susan/Delenn- oral sex
21. Stephen Franklin/Tessa Holloran (No. 1)- sex
22. Sinclair/Neroon-grinding
23. Marcus/Stephen- Masturbation
24. Talia/Susan- Fingering+Vibrator
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Rating:
Explicit
Archive Warning
:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories:
F/F
F/M
M/M
Multi
Fandom:
Babylon 5 (TV 1993)
Relationships:
Delenn/John Sheridan
Lyta Alexander/Delenn
Marcus Cole/Neroon (Babylon 5)
Marcus Cole/Susan Ivanova
Stephen Franklin/G'Kar
Marcus Cole/Susan Ivanova/Talia Winters
Delenn/Lennier/John Sheridan
Delenn/Susan Ivanova/Lyta Alexander
Marcus Cole/Stephen Franklin
Lyta Alexander/G'Kar
Delenn/Susan Ivanova
Delenn/Neroon (Babylon 5)
G'Kar/Marcus Cole
Delenn/Lennier (Babylon 5)
Stephen Franklin/Number One (Babylon 5)
Jeffrey Sinclair/Neroon (Babylon 5)
Susan Ivanova/Talia Winters
Characters:
Delenn (Babylon 5)
John Sheridan
Lyta Alexander
Marcus Cole (Babylon 5)
Neroon (Babylon 5)
Susan Ivanova
Talia Winters
Stephen Franklin
G'Kar (Babylon 5)
Lennier (Babylon 5)
Number One (Babylon 5)
Jeffrey Sinclair
Additional Tags:
Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Smut
Art
Fanart
Nudity
Oral Sex
Anal Sex
Hand Jobs
Blow Jobs
Alternate Universe - Merpeople
Rimming
Dildos
Cunnilingus
Masturbation
Disabled Character
Vibrators
stickers are just for laffs
Language:
English
Collections:
Anonymous
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Published:
2025-05-06
Updated:
2025-09-11
Words:
160
Chapters:
24/?
Comments:
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Kudos:
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Babylon Five Smut
Anonymous
Chapter 15
: G'Kar/Marcus- Dildo (anal)
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Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Kaeya accompanied Albedo to the Dragon's Spine. At first, he didn't notice anything unusual, until the alchemist led him to the heart of the mountain. There, indeed, were several Brutocolinus camps. These also housed Abyss Mages. These camps were clustered in front of and around an underground cave. The atmosphere there was simply strange. He had the impression that something ruled the place and that it knew no adversaries. Moreover, the air seemed denser, as if it contained a power meant to oppress, to discourage anyone who ventured there.
He turned slightly, observing the ten knights who accompanied them. Jean had spared no effort; they were all among the few seasoned knights Varka had left behind. Their numbers were now composed mainly of new recruits. In any case, he was right about the atmosphere: it usually took more than a few enemy camps to impress these knights. They seemed stressed, as if they wanted to flee without being able to explain why.
Albedo, for his part, remained unfazed. He was even beginning to wonder if this man had emotions; he seemed almost inhuman like that.
"What's in this cave?"
"Durin's Heart, an Elder Dragon," the blond replied without blinking.
"I see."
They watched a little longer before Kaeya devised a strategy; there were few of them, so caution was required. He chose to eliminate the different camps separately. One knight would approach the camp to be spotted by the abyss mage, then retreat so that the camp could rush them, thus equalizing the numbers. Fortunately, there were no Lawachur, which would have been difficult to manage. The team proceeded as follows: the knights lured each enemy camp in turn, and Kaeya and Albedo joined in the fight, their respective visions helping to speed it up. Finally, only one camp remained, the one closest to the cave. A knight approached to lure the monsters away.
Like their kin, they fell into the trap, and Kaeya, eager to get home, attacked them first. They had almost finished eliminating them when Kaeya spotted an axe-wielding Mitachurl approaching a knight whose back was turned and his guard down. He ran towards it, and before the monster could strike the knight with its axe, who turned around, alerted by its running, Kaeya sliced it down with a sharp blow from his ice-infused sword. Drops of blood spurted out as the monster let out a gasp of pain before collapsing.
"Ca- Captain!" »
"Watch your back better in the future."
The knight nodded, and Kaeya saw in his eyes and those of his colleagues something he hadn't expected. Respect, sincere and raw. Not just the slight respect granted to a superior by the hierarchy, the kind he had fought so hard to earn and only obtained after numerous missions alongside them, but a deeper, more complete respect. The kind of respect that will never waver. Albedo watched him, a slight smile on her lips. Despite this, the cavalry captain was unable to say what he could be thinking.
—----
Back home, he ran into Noëlle as he was preparing to deliver his report to Jean. She was discussing a test with the acting Grand Master to apply for the title of knight. Eula, the captain of the reconnaissance company, well-liked despite her stigmatized family in Monstad, stood by his side. It wasn't hard to guess who she would be working with once she passed the test. Kaeya smiled; so much the better; this young woman deserved much more than a servant position. If Eula hadn't already chosen her, he would have taken her on his team. Jean assured her that her test would take place in a week, and if she passed, a knighting ceremony would be held despite the Grand Master's absence. Once the two women had left, he approached Jean to assure her that everything had gone well and that Albedo had returned to his workshop in Dragonspine.
—-----
Eroch, smiling, headed towards the hotel where the Fatuis were staying. It was night, and he had gotten his hands on some confidential documents he had overheard the older knights discussing a few months ago. They were in Jean's office, but he had had trouble finding them. He leafed through them, discovering crucial information he could sell to the Tsarina's troops.
He knocked on the door, and one of the Fatuis he knew best opened it.
"Eroch? We weren't expecting you; we already saw each other this week."
"I have something interesting for you, in exchange for payment, of course."
The agent slipped away and entered the room. There was no one there, everyone having gone to sleep by this time. The agent present was known to be an insomniac and the only one still awake at this hour. He was almost always the one he had to deal with. But before the two companions could even bargain, they were violently slammed to the ground.
"Well, well, but who's there?" a mocking voice spoke from above him.
--------
The plan was underway. Jean arrived breathless in his office, revealing that their friend had finally fallen for their trap. They had already gathered evidence of his betrayal, but catching him in the act would be the most effective way to stop him. They both followed Eroch, who seemed far too happy to be honest, to the Fatuis' place of residence. Along the way, a shadow passed by him, startling Jean. Kaeya smiled, giving a wink to his surveillance partner. He had already informed Rosalia of the plan because he knew she would inevitably show up when the time came. It was better for her to know why the day she saw Jean accompanying her. She smiled at him excitedly; he had learned over time that the nun loved action, especially when she was invited to participate.
As the Fatui agent and the traitor entered, he and Rosalia rushed forward as one, each tackling one of them to the ground.
"Well, well, but who is this?" he said mockingly, tackling the inspector to the ground. Perhaps he was enjoying this too much, but it was a good revenge for the treatment he had inflicted on him.
"What does that mean?!" the traitor cried.
The Fatui agent, meanwhile, had tried to fight back until Rosalia held a knife to his throat, which instantly calmed him. Kaeya laughed at the sight, while Jean frowned, an unconventional but effective method.
"That you are under arrest for treason, transmission of confidential information, attempted transmission of confidential documents, and concealment of evidence. You can remain silent; anything you say will be incriminating against you. You can seek medical help, but as a member of the Order of Favonius, you are prohibited from meeting with a lawyer," Jean stated.
Kaeya lifted the man to his feet and smiled victoriously at Jean.
"I'll send a message to Varka, he should know," Jean told him. Beneath him, the inspector flinched. Varka had a tendency to frighten criminals; perhaps it was her absence that had given him the confidence to let his guard down so much.
—----
Varka had just finished patrolling with his troops in one of Nod Krai's high-risk areas. He was returning to his tent when a knight called out to him.
"Grandmaster! A letter for you."
Varka was surprised. It was rare for Jean to keep him informed of anything. She did very good work, so she never needed his help. That was why he had chosen her. He opened the letter, discovering information worth the detour. It was serious enough to bring him back, but the people here needed him. He would have to give Jean some authorization so she could handle this matter.
He picked up his quill to reply.
—---
Kaeya leaned back in his office chair. They'd been holding Eroch in the cell for a few days while awaiting Varka's response. They'd released the Fatui agent in exchange not only for moras but also for the organization's agreement for the majority of them to leave.
Jean walked into his office without knocking, a broad smile on his face.
"I have Varka's response, we can now begin a trial."
Kaeya straightened up; this was going to be interesting.
—----
Normally, trials in Monstad were private; they were considered different from the Fontaines and their tendency to make a spectacle of them. Monstad's trials, although leading to serious penalties, were generally discreet. However, both Varka and Jean had wanted it to be official and had opened it to the public, which resulted in the court being packed. Furthermore, unlike Fontaine's supreme judge, Neuvillette, Monstad didn't have a designated judge. The judge changed depending on the situation, choosing one of several people with legal expertise. There were lawyers, but they weren't authorized for knights. Finally, people weren't just lawyers because there wasn't enough business in Monstad to support them; it was a peaceful town.
Currently, Eula was acting as judge, as she had extensive legal knowledge from her noble upbringing. Lisa was her legal assistant, and Jean was in charge of presenting the charges. Kaeya and Rosalia were present as witnesses. Albedo was present as captain of the Knights of Favonius's investigative team, where they had entrusted him with all the evidence in case it was requested.
Eroch was brought to the center of the courtroom, handcuffed and with an angry expression on his face. Jean read out the charges, which were "treason, transmission of confidential information, attempted transmission of confidential documents, and concealment of evidence." Then Eula began the trial by calling Kaeya and then Rosalia to testify, who recounted what they had seen and how they had trapped the inspector with false documents before arresting him. The accused was then asked if he had anything to say in his defense and if anyone wished to object to his punishment. The silence in the packed courtroom was telling.
"With that, I will proceed with the sentence. Inspector Eroch will be removed from his position at Favonius headquarters, stripped of his knighthood, and banished from Monstad for high treason," Eula announced neutrally.
As people were preparing to leave, Eula and Jean exchanged a glance before the former spoke again.
“Furthermore, I have an announcement to make, Eroch withheld vital information from the city, which led to the resignation of former cavalry captain Diluc Ragnvindr. Indeed, contrary to official information, the elimination of Ursa the Drake on the day of her father, Dusky Ragnvindr, was not thanks to Favonius's order, but rather to the heroic actions of this man. He will therefore be honored at the same time as the knighting of our new knight, next week. That will be all.”
The room emptied, and Kaeya gave Jean a questioning look; he hadn't known any of this.
“A little gift from Varka. After all, he didn't really agree with this decision,” the blonde explained.
—---
A week later, Monstad was celebrating. It was Noëlle's knighting. There was going to be a ceremony open to the public at the Favonius headquarters before the town celebrated for the rest of the day and night. Varka, unable to attend, had sent a congratulatory letter to the person in question. Kaeya had run into Noëlle that very morning, revising her oath. She was stressed but proud.
Kaeya headed to the headquarters of the Order of Favonius and went inside. Shortly after, the ceremony began. He spotted Eula in the front row next to the scout Amber, who was also his best friend. Since Eula would be the one welcoming Noëlle to her team, she was the person placed closest to the stage. Jean was already there since she was handling the knighting in place of Varka. The front row was reserved for captains and their assistants, if they had any, so he went to take his place alongside Albedo and Sucrose. Lisa, as the order's librarian, also had a seat in the front row, though at the very back. The rest of the room was a mix of knights and a significant number of civilians who had come to attend, including Noëlle's parents, who were already crying tears of joy.
Noëlle arrived dressed in her brand-new uniform. She had braided her short hair into two small braids and looked magnificent. She stepped onto the stage and knelt before Jean, who drew his sword and placed it on her shoulder.
"Now, Knight Noëlle will take the oath."
There was a short pause before Noëlle spoke.
“I swear to protect Monstad and its inhabitants, that I will come to the aid of those in need, that I will protect freedom and do everything to ensure its implementation. I also swear that I will put my life on the line, if necessary, to protect my nation and its inhabitants, that I will put their lives before my own, and that I will defend the city against all dangers to which it may be exposed. Finally, I swear before Barbatos my loyalty to the city of Monstad and to the Order of Favonius.”
“So be it, you are now a member of the Knights of Favonius.”
Jean raised her blade and placed it on Noëlle’s other shoulder. Then she raised it and made what they called the “Knightly Salute,” placing her sword straight in front of her and turning the blade slightly. Her back was straight and her head held high.
Noëlle stood up, and there was thunderous applause in the room. Kaeya smiled; the party was about to begin. Noëlle left the stage and stood beside Eula. Jean went to join Lisa and immediately began a lively conversation with her. Barbara came to join them; she could now that the ceremony was over.
He caught Rosalia's eye, who smiled at him and gestured for him to leave. He was walking towards her when his shoulder bumped into a woman's. He turned around and found himself face to face with what he assumed was a couple. A woman who vaguely resembled Noëlle, but brunette and older, and a man with white hair.
"Oh, Kaeya, I'm glad to see you're okay!" the woman exclaimed.
"Excuse me, do we know each other?"
The couple froze, looking at each other with understanding. He found this attitude very strange.
“In a way, my name is Adelinde and he's Elzer. In any case, I was delighted to see you again. I hope we'll cross paths again in the future.”
Before he could reply, she grabbed the arm of the man who was giving her a very strange look and left with him. The least one could say was that these two seemed to be hiding something. But then again, it was a holiday, so contrary to what he would usually have done, which was to follow them, he was going to let it slide. Besides, the place was filled with flowers that weren't in honor of Noëlle but rather of Crépus, since they were all the same flowers, the deceased's favorites, which actually grew on his land.
He went outside to join Rosalia, who was probably going to tell him all the new anecdotes and gossip of the day. Who would have thought a woman like her would enjoy that so much?
—-
A few days later, he met a strange young woman who offered to read his future. He joked that since she didn't know his past, there was no way she could see his future, and so she suggested he look into his past instead.
Amused, he accepted, even though he absolutely didn't believe in such things. She took him home and introduced herself as Mona, an astromancer. She called him by name without him introducing himself, but that didn't prove anything, as he was known throughout the town.
Once they arrived at her house, they sat around the table, and she activated her hydro power, which formed an astromancy circle. The least we can say, Kaeya thought, is that she's good at showmanship.
However, the circle began to glow in a strange, radiant way before suddenly fading away.
“What- What's going on!!??”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
"How did it go again…?" Hifumi pondered as she knelt down and unfolded the tripod, placing the instrument in the sand. Sensei had mentioned something along the lines of deploy, uncap, activate… or was it uncap, activate, deploy? Or… the other way around?
Hifumi bit her lip anxiously. She really should have asked for another demonstration when Sensei was showing her how to set this thing up. But she couldn't help it; she could barely keep up with Sensei and Ayane as they discussed instrument calibrations… or something like that. Hifumi just nodded her head along with them and acted like she understood. She had no idea that the saying "fake it 'til you make it" would come back to bite her so quickly.
It made her wonder why she was assigned to do this anyway, as opposed to Ayane. Hifumi supposed she could think of at least one reason; Ayane was needed as technical support for Abydos in the field. This desert did seem like it'd be really easy to get lost in even with GPS, so it made sense that they needed someone on-call to guide them if necessary. Hifumi didn't like it, but she understood.
But that didn't explain the presence of Hifumi's… escort.
Hifumi yelped as an explosion went off in the near distance, punctuated by the gunfire and the pained screams of what she assumed were Kaiser's PMC.
The Trinity student winced. Her current company didn't exactly make it easier to concentrate.
When Sensei introduced her to Wakamo, Hifumi thought that she was just another student - average, just like her. Sure, she was really pretty, but in terms of personality, Wakamo was quiet - shy, even - in Sensei's presence. Her infatuation with him was obvious as day, so obvious that even one as unskilled in matters of romance as Hifumi could pick up on it. So Hifumi had naturally come to the conclusion that Sensei paired her with Wakamo because, as two unassuming students, they were prime choices for a mission that required subtlety above all.
More gunfire rang out, followed by the mad cackling of Wakamo and the terrified cries of her victims.
But Hifumi was wrong. Oh, so wrong.
This girl was
terrifying
.
Hifumi didn't know what Hyakkiyako students (or at least she assumed Wakamo was one due to the way she dressed) learned in school, but she was fairly certain that it did not involve this level of bloodthirstiness. Hifumi may as well have forgotten her gun at home, and nothing would've changed - her "mission" thus far largely consisted of following around Wakamo as she carved a swath of destruction across the northwestern side of the Abydos desert.
An explosion went off in the background, and just like that her surroundings quieted. Was the fighting over?
The harsh glare of the sun subsided as it suddenly became nighttime.
Oh, wait, that couldn't be right. It was barely past noon.
Hifumi tentatively craned her head upward to see Wakamo oppressively looming over her as she balanced her wicked bayoneted rifle over her shoulders. The Hyakkiyako student blotted out the sun, the resultant shadow stretching outward from the masked student and completely enveloping Hifumi in its ominous embrace. Given the climate the Trinity student thought she would have welcomed the shade, but she found that heat stroke just might've been a more preferable outcome to… this.
"Um… Wakamo-san?" Hifumi said nervously.
"..."
"Er… hello?"
"..."
"Uh…" Hifumi tried to ignore her and go about her task, but to her chagrin, found that she couldn't.
Is she really just going to stand there menacingly the whole time…?
Hifumi gulped as she attempted to gather her wits.
Well, Wakamo had effortlessly thrashed everyone they'd come across. And even though she could do it in a heartbeat, she hadn't mauled Hifumi yet.
Yet being the keyword.
…Okay, that didn't help at all.
Deep breaths, deep breaths.
Wakamo was an ally, and if Hifumi was being entirely honest, a rather effective one. Though Hifumi was, when it came down to it, a student - and thus didn't shy away from combat when it was needed - she wasn't exactly chomping at the bit to head into warzones. So having Wakamo around was even a bit reassuring, in a way.
The pit in her stomach lessened as she swallowed her fear.
Besides, it's not like this was the first time she's dealt with scary situations.
Like missing the annual Momo Friends parade in Shiratori City. That was a pretty dreadful thought. Running into the president of the Justice Task Force could be super scary too, but she was a comforting kind of scary? Hifumi found it hard to put into words.
Once she had put things in perspective, Hifumi found the situation much less daunting. After all, Wakamo was in contact with Sensei, she couldn't be a bad person at all!
Now that she found herself able to refocus even under the very intent scrutiny of her companion, Hifumi began fiddling with the contraption once more.
The contraption was a domelike device with an attached boxlike thingy, propped up by a small tripod. Attached to it were several small black devices, something Sensei called sensor modules? One of the things Hifumi faintly recalled was Ayane mentioning the devices being some kind of motion tracking thingamabob based on a fusion of technology from both Kivotos and Sensei's homeland. They were explaining how it worked but that was around the time that Sensei and Ayane lost her. Hifumi wasn't ashamed to admit that science wasn't her strong suit in school.
While she was searching for the on button, Hifumi flipped a switch on one of the modules by mistake, causing the sensor module to begin blinking a green light as parts of the domed device began to rotate and emanate a soft whir.
That meant that it was transmitting! Er… probably.
Hifumi picked herself up off the sand, dusting off her skirt. It wasn't what she usually wore, since Sensei told her to dress differently than normal for the sake of concealing her identity, but she still didn't want to get it dirty. Clothes didn't come cheap, and as a double whammy, they cut into her Momo Friends merch budget.
"What's your relationship with Sensei?" Wakamo suddenly asked, breaking the silence.
"…Come again?"
"Your relationship. With Sensei," Wakamo clarified, in a patient tone of voice that somehow terrified Hifumi more than when the fox-eared student was rampaging.
"Oh…uh…"
Relationship? She meant like, how they get along, right?
Hifumi pictured Sensei in her head. She'd only seen his face once or twice but it was rather easy to remember one of the only teachers in the city.
Well…
He could be real rough around the edges… and mean to Abydos' enemies… and he often said and did things that confused her… and he was prone to calling Peroro-sama by a really weird name all the time…
But still! He was an adult! And they always knew better and acted in the interests of their juniors!
Right?
Now that she had gathered her thoughts, Hifumi opened her mouth to give her opinion to a waiting Wakamo.
"He seems nice?"
"Nice…?" Despite the compliment to Sensei, Wakamo seemed almost… offended? "Is that really all you have to say about Sensei?"
I thought she was mad about my relationship with Sensei! How did she flip this around and basically tell me I'm not being nice enough?!
Hifumi racked her brain for something better to say while trying not to wither under the overbearing Hyakkiyako student's aura.
It wasn't until Hifumi really thought about Wakamo's words that she paused. What
was
her relationship with Sensei, anyway?
Sensei was a strange person. He really liked guns. He could be pretty fidgety. Sensei really hated staying put. He also had some odd mannerisms and he could be really frightening sometimes. And the way he talked about Kaiser made it seem like he didn't care much for bullies, which Hifumi found was one of her favorite aspects.
It suddenly made more sense why he acted the way he did.
He was aggressive because his students were in a rough spot, not because he went out of his way to hurt others. Just seeing the way he treated his students from Abydos, especially Shiroko, cemented this idea in her mind - he was just caring for them in his own admittedly scary way.
"He cares for his students a lot, I think," Hifumi said a bit more confidently.
"Cares for his students…" Wakamo looked down at the ground. "Yes… he does, doesn't he? Even if they don't deserve it, he cares all the same…" The way she said that sounded thoughtful, almost introspective.
"Well, I don't know about deserving it, but he's definitely not the type to ignore his students."
"I suppose you're right…" the other student quietly said. It was strange - it was almost as if she was a different person just then. Like she had returned to the demure Hyakkiyako student who was happiest around Sensei.
"Wakamo-san…" Despite her trepidation, Hifumi found herself tenderly smiling at her companion as they finally found common ground.
"Faust," Wakamo sternly said out of nowhere.
"Y-yes?" Hifumi timidly replied. She thought they were having a moment…
"I don't care if you're the mastermind that is feared throughout every criminal enterprise. If I find out you're seducing my Sensei to get him to do your bidding…" She bent down to leer face-to-face at Hifumi, her mask almost touching Hifumi's makeshift disguise. "Not even Vikki and Vance will be able to save you from me."
…
What?
"Um…" It took Hifumi a few seconds to process what Wakamo had said and realize that she was well and truly at a loss for words. "Noted?"
Hifumi didn't think she was capable of getting anyone to do her bidding, much less Sensei. And what was that part about seducing?! There was no way Sensei would even find a normal girl like her appealing…
For once, Hifumi was glad for the paper bag as heat rushed to her cheeks. Fortunately, Wakamo didn't seem to notice as she scooped up the bag containing the other sensor module whatchamacallits and slung them over her shoulder. They were quite heavy, so Hifumi couldn't help carry them if she tried.
"Well then, let us be off-'' One of Wakamo's ears twitched, and the Hyakkiyako student turned her head towards the horizon.
Was it more Kaiser people? Now that Hifumi was finished setting up the device in this area, she could help Wakamo fight off any enemies they encountered. Not that Wakamo really needed the help, but it was only the polite thing to do.
With that in mind, Hifumi brought up her Necessity, readying the rifle for the moment she saw Kaiser's camouflage motif.
Hifumi's eyes widened as she saw three Crusader tanks, their grinding treads forming indents in the sand as they rolled into view. But there was something very off with them. For one, their armor was painted black, and was decorated with crudely drawn skulls on their sides. Once Hifumi squinted her eyes, she could make out multiple figures sitting on top of the tanks. These students were dressed in black, and atop their heads were helmets that looked awfully like…
Oh, no… The Helmet Gang?! Were they hired by Kaiser again?!
"Wakamo-san, we need to-" she urgently said as she aimed down the sights to acquire a target, then stopped once she realized that her very powerful companion who could dispatch those thugs with ease wasn't doing anything.
"...Wakamo-san?" Hifumi repeated, dread beginning to fill her heart.
She wasn't fighting them.
Hifumi's mind worked overtime to comprehend this scenario. Was Wakamo working together with the Helmet Gang? If so, they couldn't be up to any good. But that would mean Sensei was wrong about Wakamo from the start!
This wasn't part of the plan!
I have to alert Sensei!
Hifumi thought, as she frantically fished out her phone from her pocket and navigated to MomoTalk, only to blanch once she found that she had no signal.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" One of the helmeted students, probably the leader going by the way she carried herself, stood up and hopped off the Crusader she sat on. She swaggered over to the pair, a black pump-action shotgun balanced over one shoulder. It was only when the gangster stopped in front of them that she realized the helmeted student's attention was on Hifumi and not Wakamo. "Hey, you," she said accusingly.
"M-me?!"
"Yeah, you. I've got a bone to pick with you."
"I-I think you must have the wrong person…" Hifumi nervously replied.
"Nah…" the gangster leader said menacingly. "You're just the person I wanted to see."
Unbridled panic welled up in the Trinity student as the gangster stopped right in front of her while Wakamo made no move to help.
Was this about taking revenge for their friends at the bank? Did Wakamo sell her out?
Hifumi realized it was the situation back at the black market, when she was being chased by thugs, all over again, except now neither Sensei nor Hoshino were here to save her. If they tried to hold Hifumi for ransom, she was doomed. There's nobody who'd be willing to pay a ransom for somebody like her…
The menacing-looking student reached out toward Hifumi. Hifumi flinched and screwed her eyes shut in anticipation of the pain from gunfire or a punch or something equally painful…
…Only to look up in confusion as the gangster put her hand on Hifumi's shoulder. "Well, I just wanna say that I'm a huge fan."
Hifumi's heart stopped beating for a moment. "…Eh?"
"You're Faust, aren't you? You have to be, that helmet doesn't lie!"
"H-helmet?" Hifumi asked, now more confused than anything. "What helmet?"
"Duh! The one you're wearing right now!" The gangster pointed at Hifumi's face as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Hifumi reached up to her face and touched the "helmet" the gangster was referring to.
She thinks this taiyaki bag… is a helmet?
…
…
Is… is she right in the head?
Realizing that this worked in her favor, Hifumi awkwardly changed the topic in hopes that the gangster wouldn't spontaneously come to her senses and realize that Hifumi's helmet was, in fact, a taiyaki bag. "So, um… you know about me?"
"'Course I have! Everybody who's anybody has heard of you!" the student said jovially. "The way you marched right into the black market and tore up the entire place, trashing everyone you came across! You totally showed everyone at the black market about truly not giving a damn about the law, consequences be damned. While wearing some rad helmets, no less!"
"Wait, weren't some of the people there your friends?" Hifumi disbelievingly asked, remembering that there were some Helmet Gangsters among the black market guards. "You aren't mad?"
"Mad? About those losers? Nah." The gangster snorted. "They knew as much as the rest of us that if you work for a place like the black market, you're bound to get your ass whooped eventually. Stuff like that comes with the territory."
"Oh…" Hifumi said, once again at a loss for words.
The leader of the gangsters present lifted her helmet, allowing Hifumi to see her features. She was surprisingly pretty, in a rough-and-tumble sort of way. She had long, flowing red hair and sharp red eyes. She nodded at the pair, adopting a devious grin which showed off a set of razor-sharp teeth. "Komakaze Rabu, officer of the Helmet Gang. The Fox over here called in a favor, so here we are."
"Wakamo-san?" Hifumi said, facing the masked student, who said nothing.
"Though she didn't say nothing about having Faust here," Rabu said. "Hey Faust, don't suppose Vikki and Vance are here too, are they?"
Hifumi felt a bead of sweat form on her forehead as she rushed to improvise an excuse. "Vance is, um, on vacation."
"On vacation," Rabu repeated flatly.
"Y-yeah! He's, uh…" Inspiration came to Hifumi when she remembered what the Abydos students were discussing with Sensei that one time. "Gambling! Several districts away. A-and Vikki went with him, because even a cold-hearted outlaw like Vance can't bear to leave his partner in crime out of the fold!"
Gambling? Cold-hearted outlaw? Stupid, stupid, stupid… There's no way she'll believe that…
Hifumi muttered a quick apology to Sensei for… for… well, she didn't know what for, only that she was sorry.
Rabu looked briefly dumbfounded before smirking and shaking her head, as if hearing about the exploits of an old friend. "Hah. Breaking the bank in more ways than one, huh? I like it."
…
That worked?
Hifumi breathed a sigh of relief as Rabu turned away from her and addressed Wakamo. "Hey, just so we're clear, we're even now, Fox. Got it? Now me and the rest of the gang officially don't owe you jack."
"Yes, yes," Wakamo said dismissively. "Just do your jobs and be good little decoys, hm?"
Wait, decoys?
Rabu either didn't notice Wakamo's dismissive words or didn't care as she climbed aboard the foremost Crusader.
"Hop on!" Rabu said, beckoning Hifumi to join her.
"U-um…" Biting her lip, Hifumi looked to her companion for support, only to find that Wakamo had already nimbly boarded one of the other Crusaders, where she perched broodily.
Well, if they're on our side now, there shouldn't be any problems… I hope.
Hifumi began to climb aboard, yelping when Rabu grabbed her arm and helped her up. Once she was situated, the Crusader began to move, and Rabu chuckled sinisterly as she looked to the horizon.
"With the Fox of Calamity and the legendary Faust, there's nobody who'd be able to beat us!"
Wait, Fox of Calamity? As in, one of those Seven Prisoners people that even the General Student Council fears? The one that was about to blow up Schale before Sensei stepped in?
That
Fox of Calamity?!
Hifumi whimpered as she was somehow swept up with some very dangerous people. Again.
"I knew I should've stayed at home today…"
Now, I like to think I'm not a judgmental person. I've seen plenty of weird practices in my time. Participated in some, too. Things like hunting down the Ghost of She while tripping on Sacred Datura or engaging in long sessions of percolations with Dala were but a few of said practices. Cultures are different everywhere you go, and it was thanks to these experiences I had developed something of a high tolerance for outlandish shit. It was a
[Wild Wasteland]
, after all, and it was inevitable that not everything was going to make sense.
Though cooking in the heart of a literal warzone - while getting shot at, no less - was a new one.
"I made sandwiches!" Fuuka called out cheerily to every ally on the battlefield amidst the cacophony of explosions and gunfire.
I wasn't quite sure when she had gotten around to setting up a portable grill for cooking and a picnic blanket for assembling sandwiches, but it seemed that Fuuka, being a student, was nonetheless prone to eccentricities like her peers. And here I thought she was one of the only sane ones around here.
However, odd as it was to host a lunch break in the middle of a battlefield, odd behavior along those lines wasn't unprecedented, psychologically speaking. People do tend to default to habitual behaviors when under extreme duress. Since we'd been fighting nonstop for the past couple of hours, it was entirely possible that cooking was Fuuka's way of coping with the stress of the situation.
But that didn't explain why nearly
everyone
, even most of the Prefect Team, abandoned their positions to partake in the lunch break.
"Mmh, this is really good!" Nonomi complimented as she lowered her minigun to have a quick bite.
"You're too kind…" Fuuka said bashfully.
"Extra pointf fer being easfy to eat," Shiroko said through a mouthful of sandwich, before giving Fuuka a thumbs up.
"It's… not bad," Iori said plainly, the energetic swishing of her demonic tail telling a different story. Behind her, several of her fellow Prefect Team members waited in their line for their turns, seemingly uncaring that they were still getting shot at.
See, I knew by now that students treated gunfights like fun social activities as opposed to deadly ones. I also recognized that standards of education in Kivotos were leaps and bounds ahead of the Wasteland's, since unless you were born in the heart of NCR or Followers territory you wouldn't have access to any education beyond whatever local schoolhouse your community saw fit to maintain.
Even with all this in mind, seeing such a baffling turn of events, I couldn't help but wonder if these students were, as the Vit-o-matic Vigor Tester would put it, a bunch of "Sub-bricks".
"Sensei," Hina said as she joined me at the frontline, the only person aside from myself and ED-E who did not partake in lunchtime.
"Ah, Hina. The only other bastion of common sense in this strange land," I greeted in relief at the sight of her.
Hina shot me a look which I interpreted as her way of saying 'what the hell are you talking about'. She tilted her head in the direction of the others. "Sensei, you should have some food too. I can cover the front for you," Hina offered, as if interrupting a gunfight to grab lunch was a perfectly normal thing to do.
I felt my stomach drop. So she saw this as normal as well. The only thing keeping Hina from joining them was the fact that Hina wanted me to go in her place. While nice of her, this meant that Gehenna's head prefect was just as crazy as everyone else here.
I just don't get it. What makes this food special enough that it would make nearly everyone… abandon…
"Ahh, that hit the spot!" Hoshino exclaimed happily, rearming herself. "Only thing that would make this better is an afternoon nap, but I guess you can't have your cake and eat it too, huh?" With that, she joined up with me and Hina, assisting in repelling Kaiser forces with renewed vigor.
It wasn't just Hoshino. After their impromptu break, every student who had attended rejoined the battle, all sharing one thing in common - all of the accumulated scratches, bruises, and other damage they had sustained over hours of fighting gradually healed until the injuries were completely gone.
The food HEALS YOU?!
I thought as my eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets.
Yeah, there were certain food articles in the Wasteland which possessed extremely mild healing properties. Said food articles were mostly ones with pharmaceutically active ingredients like those present in Nuka-Cola (minus the radioactive compounds). But this was on a whole other level - and while the healing rate was not as fast as a Stimpak's, at least from what I observed, these students' injuries were nonetheless disappearing right before my eyes. Fuuka had to have done
something
to the food to give it these properties.
There was only one plausible explanation.
Chems!
In an instant, my assessment of Fuuka was turned on its head. I truly did not take her for that type of person.
Just what kind of drugs was she loading her food with to give it regenerative properties? Must be made from compounds not detectable on standard drug screens, since I didn't notice on the very first dish she cooked for me. My Pip-Boy or digestive implants would surely have detected whatever she laced the food with.
Perhaps this food was specially prepared for battle
, I realized. I'd have to run some tests on that food later to determine what chems she used. Who knows, maybe I could improve the Stimpak formula using what I learned.
With nearly every student having returned to the fray, Fuuka tilted her head as she addressed me. "Sensei, you don't want any? I still have some left over."
"... No thanks, I'm not… injured," I awkwardly replied to the unexpected chem dealer. "But pack me some to-go, please."
I needed some of that. For science.
Fuuka smiled and nodded as she began cleaning up shop, stowing away her portable grill and wrapping up leftovers. Before long, she had packed everything away into a satchel and returned to the fight.
That little impromptu lunchtime caught me by surprise, but it couldn't have happened at a better moment. Against an enemy who easily numbered within the hundreds, our operation soon turned into an endurance battle. It was easy enough to tell that the fighting was beginning to take its toll on our teams, with only Shiroko, Hoshino, and Hina not showing any signs of slowing down. But thanks to Fuuka, our teams would be able to keep going for some time longer.
As for me, while I had nothing to worry about in a test of
[Endurance]
, the issue was with the electric core. Several hours of nonstop combat and V.A.T.S. usage were really doing a number on the electric core, which was now in its thirties in terms of power supply. It would appear I overestimated how much mileage I'd get out of a power core that ran on electricity.
Additionally, since the Tesla-Beaton Prototype and Sprtel-Wood 9700 both used the same type of ammunition, my supply of electron charge packs was draining much faster than was optimal. It was due to this I found myself falling back on using the MF Hyperbreeder Alpha to finish off singular opponents while saving Sprtel-Wood 9700 for clusters of enemies and the Tesla-Beaton Prototype for vehicles.
On the flip side, thanks to the Prefect Team's fire support, the Shittim Chest still had about sixty percent charge left in it. Iori was very efficient when it came to dispatching more serious threats on a timely basis - her modified Kar98k had to have been loaded with armor-piercing rounds, judging from the way her shots seemed to pierce right through tank armor and helicopter cockpits.
Meanwhile, Hina was a force to be reckoned with all on her own. In contrast with Iori, who focused on taking out high-priority targets, Hina primarily focused on crowd control, and to great effect. Using quick, clean bursts from her machine gun, the head prefect dispatched enemies as quickly as they arrived - this was made even more impressive by the fact that she was essentially hip firing the whole time, as if aiming down the sights was too much of a hassle. To be able to retain pinpoint hipfire accuracy for an extended period without tiring… Not only was Hina quite skilled with
[Guns]
, but she had quite the uncanny core strength for someone of her stature.
Though oddly enough, I never witnessed her reload even once. Instead…
As if on cue, Hina paused firing and raised her gun, pointing its barrel to the sky. She pulled a handle on the upper portion of her gun, causing faint licks of purple energy to disperse from its barrel, as if to cool it down. After a few seconds, she returned to firing, downing a series of drones with ease.
Taking a moment to reload my own weapon, I spared a glance at hers. At first I thought it was just a modified MG42 with some pretty lights, but was it possible that thing was an energy weapon? It was leaving unmistakeable bullet-shaped contours in her targets, but her shots also carried with them a purple contrail that reminded me of Serika's ability from back when she was ambushed. A unique type of microfusion breeder, perhaps?
"Hey, guys?" Nonomi said, pulling me from my thoughts. "Is it just me, or have they stopped coming?"
"It's not just you," Shiroko replied, finishing off a few drones. Her eyes panned over the battlefield as the enemy was quickly routed. Kaiser's PMC seemed keen on relying on the strategy of overwhelming their opponent with sheer numbers, so as soon as their reinforcements stopped arriving, their forces' lack of staying power was made readily apparent.
"Did we…" Serika gasped, taking a moment to catch her breath, the last traces of blue fire dissipating from her person as her ability expired. "Did we win?"
"I don't think so," Iori commented, her eyes narrowing as she pointed straight ahead. "They're probably holing up in that base up ahead."
The other students followed Iori's gesture. North of our location was one of Kaiser's many military installations. It was a bit bigger than the one I visited on my first trip with Wakamo, as this one looked like it was roughly larger than Nellis Air Force Base. Similarly, this base was also walled off. However…
"...The gate is open," Hina observed, frowning thoughtfully. "They're either inviting us in to negotiate, or…"
"It's a trap," Hoshino finished, humming. She looked up at Ayane's drone, which circled in the sky above us. "It'd be nice if we could just send in a drone to get a bird's-eye view of the place."
"Can't reach Ayane. I think they got jammers around here," Shiroko said. "The drone's autopilot can handle basics like first aid and spotting, but reconnaissance is off the table until Ayane regains connection."
Iori hissed in irritation as she tried to contact Ako and failed. "We're in the same boat here. Blind."
"How do you think we should go about this, Sensei?" Hina asked. The rest of the students present turned to me and awaited my response.
The possibility of it being a trap was blindingly obvious. Perhaps Kaiser finally realized that throwing endless troops at us wouldn't work. Since that was the case, it'd make sense that they'd lead us into a place where they had the home-field advantage.
Question is, do we need to pursue them further?
Team 1, which was our current group, entered from the south. Problem Solver 68, Team 2, entered from the west from the neighboring district and made their way to the central base to cripple vital Kaiser infrastructure. Team 3 followed the same route we took then split from us, with the intent of cutting off reinforcements from the east then regrouping with Team 2. Wakamo and Hifumi entered from the same direction as Team 2 but circled north to set up a perimeter of motion sensors that'd allow us to remotely monitor activity in the desert.
Given that several hours had elapsed since we started, it was highly probable that Teams 2 and 3 were finished with Kaiser's central base. However, since we lost communications with them very early in this operation, we had no way of checking up on them or coordinating a rendezvous.
Same thing goes for Team 4 - while Ayane had confirmed that one of the motion sensors had gone online before we lost connection with her, Team 4's current status was up in the air. At the very least, I knew Team 4 would be safe, physically speaking - I couldn't conceive of a way that Wakamo could be taken out by whatever fodder Kaiser sent her way. Hifumi was just there to keep Wakamo on track with the objective - since I wasn't there, Wakamo needed somebody with a good head on their shoulders to reel her in from getting too carried away. It helped that Wakamo was aware of Faust's reputation, so that gave Hifumi some much-needed pull with her.
Taking all this into account, we had some leeway as to how we should approach this situation. Ultimately, I decided that whatever option does the most damage in the shortest amount of time would be the best course of action - not only would taking out another one of their bases further weaken their foothold in the area, but Kaiser also had their doors literally open for us. Might as well deal with this place now while the opportunity presented itself, just in case Kaiser decided to make this place a holdout for their army in the future.
"We're going in," I said. "Be ready to break through in case we have to make a run for it."
Our fighting force voiced their collective acknowledgement, taking a brief moment to prepare. Ammunition was checked, magazines were loaded, fallen Kaiser bots were looted (in the case of Shiroko and I), and cooking supplies were readied.
And thankfully, contrary to what Iori said, we weren't completely blind.
"ED-E." I nodded at the Eyebot, and he nodded back comprehendingly, being well-accustomed to serving as my eyes and ears.
Our teams approached the open gate. The base, upon first glance, looked deserted. Propped up around the interior of the base were temporary fortifications in the form of tents, which were reinforced in anticipation of Abydos' harsh sandstorms. As we entered, ED-E briefly took the lead and hovered close to the ground.
A few of ED-E's antennae twitched as he emitted a series of high-frequency radio waves into the ground. When he was finished, ED-E returned to shoulder level. "
<Short beeping>
."
"No mines or explosives," I translated for the group. Good to know that Kaiser wasn't trying to pull a Boulder City on us.
Iori raised an eyebrow skeptically. "How'd you get that from just a few beeps?"
"Like learning a language. Practice."
We gingerly stepped through the open gate, and immediately ED-E shuddered, his antennae splaying out in every direction.
My HUD compass promptly updated as it synced with ED-E's
[Enhanced Sensors]
. "Hmm…"
"Sensei? What is it?" Shiroko asked.
Taking one moment to count the number of amber blips on my compass, I replied, "Hundred-plus individuals scattered in every direction. Non-hostile."
Several team members looked around in panic before they heard the last thing I said.
"Wait, non-hostile?" Serika asked. "Why would they be non-hostile?"
Movement out of the corner of my eye halted my reply to her question as one of the various tent's flaps opened.
Emerging was a robot who tended to the heavyset side. The robot was unarmed and was quite tall, standing only a few inches shorter than me in full Power Armor. The robot didn't look like any of the mass-produced automata we'd been fighting, leading me to believe this was one of the sentient types that populated Kivotos. He was clad in a cleanly pressed suit and a black lounge jacket with black pants.
He matched Hoshino's description to a tee; so this was one of Kaiser's executives, huh?
Just the person I've been looking for.
Joining his side were two shield-bearing automata, presumably bodyguards. They were not the only ones. More armed guards came crawling out of the woodwork like Radroaches. They stood at the ready on the ground while several others were perched on the ramparts and on guard towers. They stiffly held their firearms but made no gestures of hostility just yet.
"Sensei…" Fuuka said in worry at the fact we were now completely surrounded. Most of the Foreclosure Task Force and Prefect Team shared her apprehension, save for Hoshino, who remained neutral, and Hina, who appeared almost indifferent. Immediately, the two teams spread out to face the surrounding forces in a defensive formation while I stared down the enemy leader.
The robot and his bodyguards calmly approached us, then stopped just a few meters shy of our group. He took one glance at the symbol on my armor, then greeted me almost derisively.
"So you're that teacher who's been giving my employees so much trouble," he said. "I should've known you had something to do with riling up those Abydos children."
"Given the situation they've been put into, can you really blame them?" I replied, doing my best to keep my tone even.
"I absolutely can," he assured. "After all, this is private property you're trespassing on. Their petty qualms aside, we have every right to defend ourselves on our land."
"Petty?!" Serika seethed, red in the face.
"...
Your
land?" Shiroko glared at him. The two students, who looked about ready to threaten violence on the robot, were stopped when Hoshino held out an arm in front of them.
"Oh? You're Abydos' vice president, aren't you?" he asked. "Smart move to back down. It seems you know the value of restraint… unlike your former president, at least."
Hoshino twitched at the taunt but said nothing.
"Even worse, you've even roped Gehenna's Prefect Team into your little scheme." The robot snorted haughtily as he regarded the uniforms on the Gehenna students. "I wonder what our business partners in the Pandemonium Society would think once they found out the Prefect Team was traipsing around in private property several districts away."
Hina showed nearly no sign that she was bothered by this subtle threat, but somehow I felt she was not pleased in the slightest. Iori gnashed her teeth angrily but held her tongue.
This guy's a real piece of work, I can already feel it.
Still, for the sake of maintaining an appearance of impartiality as a representative of Schale, I begrudgingly resisted the ever-growing urge to commit unspeakable violence on him.
"And who are you supposed to be?" I asked. Diplomacy first, then violence, if necessary.
I was really,
really
hoping it was necessary.
"Why, I am the chief executive of Kaiser Corporation, and the CEO and director of its PMC," he stated, dusting off his coat arrogantly. "And I am the one Abydos owes its debt to - its creditor."
"Creditor…?" I pondered. If this robot wasn't talking out his ass, then that meant that many of these students' financial woes could be directly traced to him.
It was wishful thinking, but I still couldn't help but wonder if the debt would go away if this guy were to… disappear.
"That's right," the Director said. "I oversee Kaiser's continued operation in Abydos district. Thus, the choice of appropriate repercussions of your actions falls to me. Perhaps I would've been willing to let these children off the hook with a slap on the wrist. However…" The Director's tone turned to one of fury. "Millions of yen worth in damages to our army, not to mention the damage sustained to our drilling rig, supply caches, cutting-edge equipment, and comm centers…"
Several of our members perked up as the Director unknowingly divulged news of the other teams' success.
The Director continued his tirade. "You've set our operations here back by a year, at the very least. These losses have gone beyond what can simply be dismissed as collateral. As such, I'm afraid the issue of remuneration will once again fall to Abydos." If he had a mouth capable of forming human expressions, I'm certain the Director would've smiled maliciously. "How does a few extra figures to your debt sound?"
The students he was referring to collectively paled.
On second thought, do we really need diplomacy? This guy is a piece of shit.
It was one thing to rightfully be owed a sum of money by somebody who especially needed it, but this only proved that Kaiser was maliciously leveraging Abydos' debt knowing that they couldn't afford to pay it off.
"Extra figures…?" Nonomi murmured. "But that's.."
"Highly improbable that you'd be able to pay it off within your lifetimes? Perhaps," the Director said. "But you should've thought about that before you trampled into your creditor's land, guns blazing. You students really should leave adults to their business." The Director glanced at me. "Well, most adults, anyway. I cannot even fathom why this one would bother with such a decrepit district."
"What are you saying?" Nonomi said, a rare look of genuine irritation on her face.
"Why, the truth," he continued. "Surely you are not holding out hope that this adult is helping you out of the kindness of his heart. After all…" the Director sneered. "If this one truly cared about you, he wouldn't have led you on this asinine little field trip."
The general disposition among the FTF was one of quiet anger… until the Director's last sentence. The students immediately became furious.
"How dare you-" Shiroko raised her voice uncharacteristically loudly, before I chose that moment to intervene.
"So what you're saying is, these students and I have committed a crime," I said, to the utter confusion of my team.
"Have you even been paying attention this whole time, Sensei? Or is that helmet soundproof?" The Director shook his head. "Of course that's what I'm saying."
"Then why haven't you pursued legal action toward us?"
"...What?"
"If this is your property and we're trespassing, call Valkyrie. After all, when a district oversteps its bounds legally, aren't you supposed to go to the police first?"
The Director scoffed. "Why should we be obligated to seek out aid from Valkyrie? If we have the means to mete out justice on our terms, why shouldn't we?"
"It would save you resources, for one," I pointed out. "Why spend money on a private army defending this large a territory from just a few students, when you can leave it to other forces to take the financial hit for you?"
The Director stared at me for one moment before bursting into roaring laughter, throwing us all off. "You truly believe we've amassed these forces for
you and a handful of students
?" He shook his head. "You think too highly of yourself, Sensei."
"Do I, now?" I asked, secretly taking note of the possibly useful information that he just divulged. "To me it looks like this 'handful of students' was mopping the floor with everything you sent their way. Whole lotta good this PMC did you, huh?"
The robot merely growled in response.
"Since it sure as hell looks like you can't hold this place on your own by force, your other avenue is to petition the powers that be for assistance," I continued. "Except… you haven't. Instead of choosing the easy and painless route, your first response is to continue to leverage these students' debt against them, despite there not being any foreseeable payoff." I crossed my arms, regarding the Director levelly as the two factions of students watched. "Really. If you're going to pretend to care about the law, at least try to be upfront about your own shady business dealings. Don't use legalities as a shield; it makes you look like an asshat."
"Shady business?" he asked, pointedly ignoring my latter sentence. "My, but what kind of accusations are you slinging about now, Sensei? Is this how the Federal Investigation Club operates - touting baseless claims and using them as impetus to invade others' land? Should I add slander to your growing list of offenses here?"
"Who said anything about it being baseless?"
His tone turned grave. "...Explain."
"Say, for instance, if we happened to obtain evidence that Kaiser Corporation was responsible for hiring gangs to harass the students of Abydos, and using the black market to equip said gangs." I tilted my head unassumingly. "That would make for a pretty good reason for these students to try and take back their land, right? It'd amount to self-defense, basically."
"You have no such proof. We didn't do anything of the sort."
"You sure about that?" I casually shot back.
He clicked his tongue irritably. "Then the burden of proof lies with you. Why don't you show me what you've found? Perhaps I can edify you as to how you've misunderstood the situation."
"No thanks." Showing him whatever proof we had would give Kaiser time to run damage control, thereby reducing the evidence's effectiveness. I had every intent of holding onto the evidence for as long as it could be useful. Ultimately, the best blackmail material was one that never needed to be used.
"Why not? Surely, if whatever you found is enough to justify this invasion, then it must be substantial enough to-"
"Don't you get it?" I strode up to him so we could speak face-to-face. "It's fair play."
He scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. How is that fair play?"
"I thought it'd be obvious to you. After all, you're used to lording things over people, aren't you?" I paused. "Although 'lording' may be too nice a word. No, you'd rather strongarm these students into submission. Force them into working their asses off to pay off a debt they had nothing to do with, knowing full well they won't ever succeed within their lifetimes combined. Hire thugs to evict them from their school building, the only thing they have to their names except their guns and the clothes on their backs. Take away everything they own, then take away the ground underneath their feet, just because you can. And you still have the balls to taunt them about it, pretending to have the moral high ground all the while?" It was my turn to sneer. "People like you are a dime a dozen, but you never fail to make me sick."
"Sensei…" Shiroko murmured, surprised by my outburst.
"You…" the Director seethed.
"Like I said, fair play. All I'm doing is leveling the playing field for them, since no one else would," I said, glad to have gotten that off my chest. "With all that said and done, I only have one thing left to say to you." I took one more step toward him, and he took one step back reflexively. "Get the hell out of this district. You and your troops."
"...Are you serious?" the Director replied. "You allude to some dodgy 'proof' of our wrongdoing, and you want us to abandon the property that we rightfully own?!"
"Yeah, so? What are you gonna do? Call the police? We've been over why you won't do that. And even if you do, I've got friends in Valkyrie," I bluffed. It went without saying that Kirino and Fubuki weren't exactly high on the totem pole, but the best bluffs are ones that are technically true. "Oh, and if you even think about touching the debt? Let's just say that Kaiser's dirty laundry will be circulating on social media for a long time."
That got his attention. "Just what do you think that'd accomplish?"
"A PR disaster, for starters," I responded. Social media is a truly powerful thing. It's a shame that most people here seemed to take it for granted. "Just imagine the headlines: 'megacorporation hires thugs to harass five kids and tries to make them homeless'. Can't wait to see what your PR team will have to spin to justify yourselves to an entire population of pissed-off schoolgirls with guns."
"That's… only if you actually had something usable against us," he argued. "Making unsubstantiated claims against us is just as likely to backfire on Schale if you're found to be in the wrong."
"Can you take that risk?" I goaded, before taking yet another approach. "On the off chance that I do hold incriminating evidence, you'll be implicated yourself. It's your ass on the line if your company takes a hit, and you can bet you'll be the scapegoat in that situation."
The Director paused to consider that scenario, mulling over his choices.
"Try to push us out or retreat - makes no difference to me. But know this." I shrugged. "I've got your number, asshole. Maybe you've managed to grift your way into positions of power and influence so far without anyone getting in your way. But now? The moment you try to overstep your bounds, technically legal or not, you can bet your ass I'll be there waiting."
"...Hmph." Apparently having reached a decision, his dismissive tone returned. "Will you, now?"
The Director raised a hand, and immediately every PMC member encircling us brandished their guns at our group. Multiple sentry guns extended from metallic fixtures in the ground and also pointed at us threateningly. Our group tightened their grips on their guns, with many students disengaging their safeties.
"This farce has gone on for long enough," he spat. "Allow me to offer a proposition of my own, Sensei. Come with us quietly, and your students can go free. If you don't, I can't promise their safety."
Shiroko growled - actually
growled
. "As if we'd trust you with Sensei."
Sounds of agreement echoed through our ranks.
Whistling as I readied my weapon, I said, "You heard them. They don't like you or your deal."
"Last chance. I'd advise you to be careful about your next move, Sensei," he slowly warned. "We outnumber you twenty to one."
"How about you eat shit?"
The Director shook his head in disbelief then turned to his troops. "Eliminate them. However, the President has taken interest in Sensei, so do take care to keep Sensei alive if you can-"
Seeing as he was giving us just the excuse we needed to retaliate in full force, I chose to goad him further.
"The tried and true strategy of throwing endless waves of trash at us, huh?" I snarked. "You're a regular tactical genius, you know that? You hoping that a few hundred more bots are gonna do the trick?"
I would have paid caps to see this guy's pissy facial expression, were he to have facial expressions at all. "Do not think for a second that what you see here is all we have at our disposal," the Director growled.
"Well I sure hope this isn't everything."
"Oh?" he said confusedly. "And why is that?"
"I don't want them to miss what's about to happen," I threatened, no longer bothering to hide the malice in my voice.
"Because I'm going to rip you in half and use your guts to make a toaster."
A moment of stunned silence reigned amongst everyone present. A chill ran down the Director's spine as he shuddered, as did several other students present. Even Hina was momentarily caught off guard by the sudden
[Terrifying Presence]
.
"W-what are you idiots waiting for?!" the Director shouted fearfully at the soldiers surrounding us before he turned tail to flee. "Take them out!"
The battlefield turned to cacophony as the students focused on defending themselves from enemies in every direction. Any further speech I promptly tuned out as I activated a dose of Implant GRX and lunged forward, my focus exclusively on one target - the fleeing Director. Stowing Sprtel-Wood to free up my hands, I pursued the Director at an inhuman speed, only slightly slowed by the T-45d's outdated servomotors. I had nearly caught up to him when one of his shield bodyguards intercepted me, barely managing to raise his shield in time and activate its force field.
Using my momentum, I slammed my fist into the robot's shield, causing the robot to stagger and his barrier to deform slightly from the force of the powered strike. Capitalizing on the robot's lapse in defense, I withdrew a short metallic rod and flipped a switch on its underside. The capacitors on one of the far ends of the rod powered up, causing the hardlight blade of the Proton Throwing Axe to buzz to life with a bluish hue. Wielding the weapon in my left hand like a tomahawk, I brought the blade of the miniature axe down on the robot's head. The hardlight blade, optimized for use against synthetic components, easily sliced into the bot's head before getting caught midway, with the added bonus of overloading its circuits. As I wrenched the melee weapon from its head, the robot crumpled to the floor, its body convulsing wildly.
With one of the Director's bodyguards dealt with, I withdrew the MF Hyperbreeder Alpha from a compartment on my thigh and turned to the other bodyguard, only to find that ED-E and Fuuka had succeeded in downing the robot. Nodding, I turned back to the direction in which the PMC Director fled, only to find that a cadre of five other shield bots arrived to block my path.
Implant GRX wore off just as I dealt with the cadre with the help of my companions. However, the PMC Director had already disappeared behind his small army, which had rearranged itself to cover his escape as well as encircle our fighting force. Very faintly, I heard the panicked shout of the Director as he fled further behind enemy lines.
"Release the prototype!"
Just then, the earth began to shake, throwing many of our ranks off balance as sand shifted around us. Several PMC automata stepped back as a hole opened up in the ground, revealing a large metallic hatch. The hatch slowly slid open, and a massive shape was suddenly elevated into view by a hexagonal platform.
Hoshino's eyes focused on the object and her eyes widened. "Oh, crud."
"Arona, what in God's name is that thing?" I slowly asked as the platform became level with the ground around it and the object it carried became fully visible.
The object was a hulking bipedal robot which stood over twenty feet tall. Its stout arms were outfitted with tri-barrel miniguns on each of their ends. Mounted on its back was a massive cannon not unlike that of a tank, but it was obvious from its design that this thing did not fire normal tank shells. The mech's entire front was covered in thick armor plating which easily repelled shots from a few of the Prefect Team members who tried taking shots at the new threat.
"That's a Goliath! I didn't know Kaiser had been trying to manufacture them as well!" Arona exclaimed, before frantically warning, "Sensei, whatever you do, don't let it lock onto you with its main gun-"
Arona's warning was interrupted by a loud metallic creaking. The Goliath's knees locked into place as it hunched over, exposing the large cannon on its back as it rotated into position - aimed right at me.
Shit.
"Scatter!" I shouted to everyone behind me. Immediately, ED-E zipped off while Fuuka froze, her legs not seeming to agree on whether to stay with me or flee like I ordered. Two Prefect Team members adjacent to us didn't hear me over the cracks of their own gunfire, and held their ground.
Warning klaxons blared and holographic warning messages encircled the robot. The Goliath's main gun began to glow brightly as it prepared to fire.
I quickly brought up Sprtel-Wood and shifted to the side, trying to throw off the mech's aim as well as attempting to disable the Goliath's main gun by targeting it in V.A.T.S.
Both of these actions were to no avail. The Goliath easily adjusted its cannon to account for my movement. I barely got one burst of laser fire off against the Goliath's cannon before it fired, the damage Sprtel-Wood 9700 dealt not being nearly enough to cause the Goliath to abort its launch.
I could only watch helplessly in slowed V.A.T.S. time as the massive shell sailed in my direction and impacted me square on the chestplate.
The world lit up.
"…sei. Sensei!"
When I opened my eyes, I could hardly see a thing. Beyond the flickering of my HUD, the rest of the world was obscured by a massive dust cloud that obscured every inch of the environment around me. It was only after the ringing in my ears subsided that I realized someone was calling for me.
"Sensei!" Arona pleaded. "Can you hear me?!"
"Arona?" I rasped out, coughing reflexively from the dispersed force coursing through me. I became aware of a throbbing pain throughout my body. "Damage report."
"Thank goodness you're alright." Arona sighed in relief. "Vitals are A-OK on my end, but I just wanted to make sure. As for hardware, I tried redirecting the shock from the blast away from the torso, so the right arm servomotors took some damage as a result…"
Easily fixable,
I thought as I continued to get my bearings.
"...But…" Arona hesitated. "Ah, Sensei… I'm sorry to say this, but Sprtel-chan didn't make it…"
"What?!" I looked around in the dust cloud where I had fallen to one knee from the impact. I didn't have to look very far - at my feet was the Gatling Laser, which had seen better days. Sprtel-Wood's barrel was bent inward and the area around its handle was mangled beyond recognition.
I cursed under my breath. That's gonna be an absolute bitch to repair. Not to mention recalibrate. Hopefully the main fiber optic wasn't damaged, or else I'd be forced to purchase another high-quality crystal to replace it. I could already hear Yuuka's screams of frustration.
The dust cleared enough for me to make out more of my surroundings. I found myself at the epicenter of a veritable crater a few feet deep. Scattered around the crater were the students who were close to me when we got blown up - I counted two Prefect Team members, and one additional Gehenna student.
"Fuuka?" I called out, the lack of an answer unnerving me. My eyes came into focus, and I soon registered the sight of my companion, who was out cold. The faintest hints of blood trickled from her forehead.
I felt my blood boil, like I had just taken a shot of Psycho.
The plan was originally to threaten the Director enough to scare him into fleeing, leaving his forces leaderless and putting a dent in their morale.
But now, I think I'm going to make good on that threat.
I made to get up when a voice loudly shouted from the chaos of the continuing battle around us.
"Serika! I've got the front for now!" Hoshino urgently ordered. "Get some support on Sensei! Shiroko, Nonomi, follow me!"
Mere seconds later, a pair of hands pulled on my arm.
"C'mon, Sensei. We need to get you outta here…" Serika said worriedly as she tugged on my arm. When I didn't budge she began to strain as she pulled harder, trying to move me. "Ghhh… You fake teacher, you've really put on some weight, haven't you…"
"Let me help," another voice said. Hina offered a hand to me, concern etched on her features. ED-E floated next to her, watching our exchange. "Sensei, are you alright? Can you stand?"
By now, I'd more or less recovered from the impact. I was surprised, even a bit begrudgingly impressed by the attack. Judging from the size of this crater, the payload from the Goliath's main gun had to have been at least half as strong as a Mini Nuke. If I didn't have such a ludicrously powerful barrier protecting me, that blast would've done more than just stun me. It was strong enough to make a student bleed, after all.
"Yeah. Was caught off guard a bit," I replied, accepting her hand. With one pull of her hand, I was back on my feet.
Hina tilted her head at me curiously. Before she could say anything, however, something vibrant and pink appeared in my field of view, contrasting with the drab environment.
"Are you sure? That was quite a blast there…" a student in front of me said worriedly.
"Yes, I'm sure-" I paused. "Wait, Serina?"
"Yes, Sensei! Sumi Serina, reporting for Schale duty!" The Trinity student dutifully saluted with a smile.
"How'd you find us? Ayane manage to reach you?"
"No, I had a feeling you were in trouble."
Hina, Serika, and I stared at the nurse.
"You had a feeling," Hina repeated flatly.
"Yes!"
Yet another student joined us, and she looked just as nonplussed as we did. "I don't know how Serina was able to locate you without a GPS, and frankly, I'm not even sure I want to know," Yuuka, who had finally caught up with the stalker nurse, said. "But thanks to Serina, we're here now, and ready to be deployed wherever you may need us." Yuuka's gaze passed over ED-E, whom she raised an eyebrow at, but she didn't comment, prudently saving that discussion for later.
Chinatsu had also returned and immediately joined up with the Prefect Team's support unit, leading the team's first aid efforts. I couldn't see Shun, but then again, snipers weren't exactly supposed to have much of a presence to begin with. She was likely providing fire support for the rest of our team from a suitable vantage point.
The members of Schale were mostly accounted for. But if they were here, then where was Team 2?
The dust had completely subsided, and the rest of the battlefield became visible once again.
The Goliath's main gun was retracted and the mech stood from its hunched position, its twin minigun arms spinning up as it attempted to gun down Hoshino.
Hoshino, the most serious I had ever seen her, was practically running circles around the Goliath with her shield stowed, peppering the giant mech with shotgun shells and generally being a nuisance. In one swift motion she slid underneath the Goliath and shot upwards between its legs. At the end of her slide she ended up behind the Goliath, forcing it to turn around to face her, which incidentally gave our team an opportunity to attack its less armored back. Nonomi and a particularly pissed-off-looking Shiroko capitalized on this opportunity, using gunfire and grenades to whittle away at the giant's rear armor.
Eventually the Goliath realized the futility of trying to wear Hoshino down with minigun fire, and instead chose to try and use one of its stout robotic arms to try and bludgeon her. Its massive arm fell upon the student like a hammer. Hoshino quickly unfolded Iron Horus and blocked the melee attack, producing a resounding clang as the two clashed. Hoshino slid back slightly from the force of the Goliath's attack, her heels digging into the dry earth… before, in a surprising show of
[Strength]
, she started to push back against the twenty-foot tall automaton.
Just then, a familiar shockwave washed over a portion of the battlefield, causing the automata and PMC students caught in its radius to lose their wits and run away in fear… right into several sets of well-placed mines.
That fear attack works on robots too, huh?
I thought as Kayoko and Mutsuki came into view.
"Kufufu…" Mutsuki giggled. "Not a bad combination, huh, Kayoko-chan?"
"Surprised you can still find enjoyment in small-scale stuff like this, especially after what you were saying earlier," Kayoko remarked, bearing an amused smirk.
"Pftt. Just because I said that nothing can top the fireworks from earlier doesn't mean you can't enjoy the little things! Sometimes, you gotta stop and smell the roses!" Mutsuki took a whiff of the air, sighing contentedly.
"Smells like gunpowder to me," Kayoko murmured.
Something plinked against the leg of the Goliath. Hoshino's eyes widened as the glowing projectile stuck to its point of impact, and she hopped backward just in time to avoid the large explosion that consumed the Goliath.
Aru triumphantly stood above a rocky edifice, lowering her sniper rifle. "Haruka!" Aru gestured toward the Goliath, whose posture became lopsided due to the substantial damage to its leg.
"Yes, Aru-sama!" Taking advantage of the Goliath's unbalancedness, Haruka quickly climbed aboard the giant mech and onto its back. She then used the butt of her shotgun to repeatedly bash the rear armor of the Goliath until something metallic gave way. With the Goliath's innards exposed, Haruka fired multiple shotgun blasts into the Goliath's back, causing sparks and bits of machinery to fly out. After a few moments, the machine regained its footing. It swung its body wildly, until the momentum finally succeeded in dislodging Haruka from its back. The poor Gehenna student was flung face-first into Aru, and the two ended up in a heap on the ground. Haruka profusely muttered tearful apologies to a dazed Aru.
Despite her current sad state of affairs, Haruka succeeded in doing a number on the giant mech's circuitry. The Goliath, now heavily damaged, twitched as several of its joints now sparked erratically, with some even catching aflame. The Goliath raised its twin miniguns, our team preparing to retaliate… when the Goliath suddenly raised one of its arms and smashed it into a nearby PMC automaton. Our team members watched in confusion as the Goliath began to attack friend and foe alike with melee and miniguns.
It's frenzied!
I realized. Robots back home often had combat inhibitors located on their backs, which, once disabled forcefully or otherwise, caused the robot in question to go on an indiscriminate rampage until either the robot was destroyed or everything around it was dead. Even though robots here were fundamentally different from Wasteland robots, it seemed they shared something of an analogue in terms of their targeting parameter hardware location.
Either way, now was the time to finish this thing off, especially since I had no idea whether this Goliath had access to self-repair subroutines.
I slipped the destroyed Sprtel-Wood 9700 onto my back, hearing the magnets lock it into place, then retrieved the (thankfully) intact Tesla-Beaton Prototype. I activated V.A.T.S. and queued up two shots aimed at the Goliath's head, then let it rip.
The first burst of electricity rocketed toward the target and diffused into the robot on impact, frying up its circuits something fierce but still failing to finish off the Goliath.
The second burst… never came.
The strum of a disembodied guitar echoed across the battlefield, causing nearly everyone present to stop and look for its source, just like last time.
With a flourish of his overcoat, the Mysterious Stranger spontaneously materialized right in front of Aru and Haruka, scaring the poor girls shitless. With one hand, he aimed his signature weapon straight at his target.
I watched with a giddy smile as the first shot hit the Goliath on its midsection, the anomalously powerful shot completely obliterating the robot's chest armor. Serika's brain finally caught up with what her eyes were seeing and recognition dawned in her eyes as she remembered our benefactor from back then.
Hina's mouth was slightly agape as the second shot impacted the Goliath on its left arm, the blow tearing off the limb entirely, leaving only sparking circuitry and sputtering black lubricant in place of the limb. Iori, perhaps recognizing the Stranger from the uncannily accurate drawing that Hina showed me, pointed at him, her mouth beginning to form words.
Yuuka froze, her mind working overtime to process the impossibility of what she was seeing, as the third shot pulverized the leg that Aru damaged, causing the Goliath to fall onto the stump. Fuuka groggily picked her head up from where she was being treated by Chinatsu, and upon seeing what the fuss was about, dismissed it as a fever dream and put her head back down.
The fourth shot missed entirely, but Aru didn't seem to notice or even care, as she had recovered from her initial fright at the newcomer's sudden presence. Now, her gaze was transfixed on the Stranger's enigmatic form, her eyes gleaming with an excitement whose magnitude was only matched by the times she heard about the exploits of Texas Red.
The fifth shot pierced through the Goliath's head, and finally the robot slumped over and collapsed onto its front, its main cannon depowering. With his target annihilated, the Mysterious Stranger vanished with naught but the gentle strum of a guitar in his wake.
Well, that, and the absolute mayhem that followed once normal time resumed.
"Hey, you! Stop right there!" Iori shouted at the Stranger, only to realize she was shouting at nothing. "What the…? Where'd he go?!"
"...?" Hina blinked, her expression one of utter bafflement.
"That's him! That's the weirdo with a fedora from last time!" Serika pointed frantically. "I told you! You believe me now?"
"Hm…" Shiroko hummed perplexedly. "Guess you're not crazy after all."
"You thought I was crazy?!"
"Huh. You guys saw that too?" Hoshino rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, then took one more look at where the Stranger once stood. "So Oji-san wasn't just seeing things?"
"Aru-sama?" Haruka addressed her boss, who had gone deathly quiet. "A-are you alright?"
"That…" Aru started, her tone soon taking on one of excitement. "Was. So. COOL! Did you see that?! How that stranger just swooped in at our time of need, finished off the biggest threat around here, then vanished mysteriously?! He even has his own theme song!"
"Um…" Haruka was briefly taken aback before she adopted Aru's enthusiasm as her own. "Y-yeah! He's the picture-perfect outlaw!"
Aru turned to me, an enormous smile plastered on her face. "Sensei, he's a friend of yours, right? Maybe even your sidekick?!"
"How did he… or maybe…?" Yuuka repeatedly turned her head to where the Mysterious Stranger stood, then back to me, then back again, as if she were trying to form a connection somewhere.
"Don't give me that look. Wasn't me," I said.
"But… but…"
"I was standing here this whole time. Right, ED-E?"
"
<Confirmatory beeping>
." A pause. "
<Amused beeping>
."
"Oh, come on. Don't be like that. It's their first time - don't act like you weren't confused back then too."
The intensity of battle gradually returned as members from both sides remembered that we were supposed to be fighting. My eyesight panned over the chaos, looking for signs of my target.
After downing a set of drones, I addressed my AI passenger.
"Arona, can you get a bead on the Director?" I asked, having lost him amidst the commotion. Since I didn't have access to pre-War satellites anymore, tracking him remotely via my Pip-Boy was out of the question.
"With their jammers plus everything going on, I'm afraid not," Arona replied remorsefully. "But if I had to guess, I think he might be heading for the hangar northwest of here."
Now that she mentioned it, there was a small hangar for resupplying aircraft situated nearby, and since Team 2 had succeeded in sabotaging their main stronghold, there weren't many places left that could house aircraft capable of making a quick getaway. Between our current location and the hangar was an outpost which no doubt would be fortified to cover the Director's retreat, but we had no choice if we wanted to catch the bastard before he retreated.
"I'm going after the Director!" I yelled to the Abydos crew. "Give me some covering fire!"
"But, Sensei…" Nonomi started worriedly. "Didn't we talk about you going off on your own again?"
"That's why I'm letting you know right now!" I replied, trying my best not to let my irritation seep into my tone. I knew Nonomi was just looking out for me, but she also couldn't possibly have known about the situations I regularly got myself into in the Wasteland. It was precisely because of this I staunchly refused to be coddled and let them do all the heavy lifting for me. Even if these students ate bullets for breakfast.
"Then let us join you. We won't be a burden," Shiroko said, suddenly making her way to my side while downing a drone. "We'll make a break for it together."
Seeing as convincing her otherwise would take more time than I had, I chose not to argue. Instead I began looking for a weak point in the enemy's formation.
No dice
, I thought, grimacing. Even with our own fighting forces bolstered, we still weren't clearing out the enemy quick enough to gain a meaningful foothold. I theorized that the Director was throwing every reserve he had to cover his own retreat. While we'd still outlast them at the rate we're going, that'd still give him the time he needed to escape.
Throwing caution to the wind, I decided we'd take the most straightforward route north. With Abydos with me, that'd make it easier to get through, though we still had our work cut out for us.
A relatively quiet yet authoritative voice cut through the air, and we turned to see Hina had joined us.
"You're going after the PMC's director, aren't you? If so, then there's no time to lose." Hina said, stepping in front of our group facing the northwest. "I'll clear the way for you, Sensei."
Interested, I asked, "You bring artillery or something?"
"Not exactly," the student replied, shaking her head in response. Hina looked to the encroaching enemy, then sighed in apparent resignation. "I didn't want to have to do this, but there's no other choice."
With a thunderous whipcrack that startled nearly all of us, Hina's wings suddenly unfurled and extended to their full width - more than half her height - as purple energy emanated from the student and swirled around her in a spiral. Her pupils narrowed into almost serpentine slits, and her eyes glowed ominously.
She raised her light machine gun, aiming down the sights vaguely in the enemy's direction. The purple highlights on her weapon gradually began to light up with an incandescence that rivaled even the Tesla-Beaton Prototype in intensity. Violet energy coalesced around the barrel of her weapon and crackled off its tip as the intensity reached its apex.
She pulled the trigger, and I finally realized why nobody in Gehenna was keen on crossing this person.
Her weapon roared, drowning out the rest of the battlefield. The shots she fired previously seemingly became galvanized with a logic-defying power, and began to split into multiple separate trajectories of violet contrails, like a Tri-Beam Laser Rifle but on a much wider and destructive scale. Our teams could only watch as the fifty strong enemy in front of us, despite their efforts to take cover or fight back, was overpowered and completely annihilated under the hailstorm of ethereal gunfire. Even vehicles, which briefly withstood the barrage thanks to their heavy armor, proved no match to the sustained barrage.
"HOLY SHIT!" I yelled, completely stupefied by Hina's display of power.
"Oi, oi. Trying to make us look bad?" Hoshino joked, scratching her cheek with an index finger while trying to hide her own amazement. "Well, it's kinda working."
From what I gathered thus far, most students were of average human strength, possessing varying skill in marksmanship. But recent events made it clear that a power disparity exists between most students and a few who ostensibly stand above the rest, metaphorically speaking.
Students like Wakamo and Hina were freakishly powerful, and judging by how Hoshino easily held her own against the Goliath in close quarters, I had suspicions that Hoshino was as well, and was simply hiding her true capabilities for whatever reason.
Perhaps being a high-ranking head of a school confers power to a student? That criterion would certainly apply to Hoshino and Hina, but unless Hyakkiyako's leadership was more screwed than I thought, Wakamo completely threw that theory out the window. Wakamo was a delinquent - basically one step from being a dropout - so that couldn't be the case. And now that I thought about it, Yuuka was an even more salient example - she's one of the leading officials of Millennium Science School, but the concentrated fire of a few dozen thugs was enough to wear her down.
Was there a pattern to this I wasn't seeing? Why was it that most students would rank no higher than a 5 in
[Strength]
, yet others were clearly superhuman?
Hina's attack finally petered out after several seconds, and her wings retracted. With the enemy in front of us thinned out, she wordlessly nodded to us and returned to the fray.
"Hmph. It's over," Iori said knowingly.
"Hm? What's over?" Shun, who had joined Iori at her vantage point, asked.
"This fight. The Head Prefect is serious."
"Serious? You mean she wasn't taking the fight seriously until now?" Yuuka asked with a slight frown, leveraging an analytical gaze on the head prefect.
"Exactly."
"So, she could have done this the whole time and saved us the trouble of slogging through a literal army?" Serika asked, obviously irritated, with more than a small helping of newfound apprehension. "Why would she hold back in the first place?"
"If I may interject, I suspect it's because President Hina was holding out hope that matters could be resolved without escalating the situation." Ako's hologram whirred to life, though judging from its erratic flickering and frequent voice cutoffs the connection was tenuous at best. "She's always been quite insistent that we only use the exact amount of force necessary to complete a mission. That is, unless an extravagant display of force is exactly what is needed."
"It helps that she looks pretty pissed off. Guess that robot threatening to give Makoto another reason to make our lives even more miserable really put her in a bad mood," Iori said.
"Not to mention he tried to hurt Sensei," Aru added, tightening her grip on her rifle. "Problem Solver 68 won't forget this injustice."
"Neither will I," Shiroko said, to which she received nods of agreement from several others.
"Either way, we'll do what we always do when this happens," Iori continued.
"Oh? And what's that?" Yuuka asked.
"Cleanup duty," Iori replied, her gaze turning back to her boss. Hina was tearing through enemy ranks like it was a trifle. After disabling a tank with her uncanny purple gunfire, Hina dispatched a pair of automatons wielding rifles. Without even turning around, one of Hina's batlike wings expanded over a wide area behind her to block a barrage of rockets fired at her by a drone. Quickly, Iori took a knee and sniped the drone out of the air, then briefly turned back to us. "You should go while you have a chance. We'll take it from here."
I surveyed the battlefield one more time. Between Hina, the Prefect Team, Problem Solver 68, and the forces of Schale, taking care of the bulk of Kaiser's main force should be more than doable. My original company should be sufficient backup to assault the outpost on the way to the hangars, but there was one member yet unaccounted for…
Once I caught sight of Fuuka, who was a distance away getting bandaged by Chinatsu, I winced regretfully. She was conscious and looked to be recovering fast as a result of Chinatsu's help, but it was questionable as to whether she'd be in any condition to accompany us. In any case, it wouldn't feel right dragging her back into the thick of the fighting after taking a hit like that… even if it looked like she had just suffered the equivalent of a mild concussion from it. The two Prefect Team members who were also caught in the blast were already back on their feet, so it seemed that Fuuka really wasn't exaggerating about not being fit for combat. If I wanted to have her accompany me on missions in the future, I had to see about outfitting some proper armor for her.
As if sensing what I was thinking, Fuuka caught my eye from a distance. She smiled reassuringly and nodded.
Reluctantly, I nodded back and turned to leave, leading the waiting Abydos students and ED-E through the path Hina had carved for us.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Aizen brought the tea cup to his lips with the composed precision of someone for whom even the smallest motion served a purpose. The perfumed warmth of the tea rose gently, laced with soft notes of dried flowers. He let the liquid brush his tongue, paused for a moment of silent evaluation, then returned the cup to the table- untouched- his posture serene, his expression unreadable.
Too sweet.
Not something he would voice, of course. Personal preferences were usually irrelevant- particularly in moments involving guests, when matters of greater consequence floated between sips.
Across from him, Ukitake drank with genuine delight. His eyes softened with each sip, his expression peaceful, as though the world itself might pause so long as the infusion remained at its perfect temperature. The calm with which he brought the cup to his lips suggested that, for a few minutes, urgency no longer existed.
Sayuri observed him with quiet fascination, her caramel eyes wide and steady, tracking each of his movements as though they held some silent wisdom she had yet to decipher. She sat upright on the tatami, a small cotton blanket wrinkled beneath her, her chubby arms bracing her forward-leaning body.
Aizen, seated at the head of the table, maintained a mask of indifference- though nothing escaped his notice.
It was the third time Ukitake had attempted- gently, fruitlessly- to approach her: a hand extended, a warm smile, a playful reach for her hair. But Sayuri did not want to laugh. She did not want to be touched. Not by him. Not now.
Was it so difficult to understand that she only wanted to look?
To simply admire that long, beautiful hair- white as fresh cotton- and sit motionless in reverent silence?
Physical proximity was an offense.
Eventually, Ukitake seemed to accept his defeat, letting out a soft laugh that said, "Ah, maybe later," before returning to his tea. But Sayuri’s gaze did not budge. She remained fixated on him with the solemn intensity of someone who believes that watching is the highest form of interaction- as though trying to understand how someone with such wonderful hair could be so... presumptuous.
Farther down the room, seated with the composure of a general, Byakuya Kuchiki ignored them all.
He paid no attention to the tea, still steaming in front of him. The warmth of the room, the murmured exchanges, Ukitake’s presence, even the subtly guarded look on Aizen’s face- none of it seemed to register. Sayuri, too, went unnoticed- and likely even the very air around him.
"So..." Ukitake began, his voice light as always, though clothed in the polished formality he seldom shed. He set his cup down gently and looked to Aizen. "Is Shunsui awake yet?"
Aizen glanced at Sayuri before responding. She had finally, if only briefly, released her trance-like focus on the white-haired guest and was now crawling slowly across the tatami, set on reaching the safest place she knew: her father’s lap. Her small fingers clutched at his hakama with quiet insistence, and Aizen leaned down to assist, his hand supporting the small of her back as she settled against him.
"No," he said quietly, his tone flat. "He has not yet totally awakened. The induced sleep has ended, and now he rests of his own accord. That is... a favorable sign. It indicates that his body has begun to recover independently. He requires that strength in order to heal."
Ukitake nodded, visibly relieved. "Still, it’s excellent news. Better than any we’ve received so far."
A pause followed- one of those that, if stretched a second too long, threatened to turn awkward. Aizen remained silent, one hand gently resting on Sayuri’s head as she nestled quietly against his chest. Ukitake seemed content to let the silence linger- perhaps out of respect, or habit.
But Byakuya was not built for indulgent silences.
"We have uncovered a matter of significance."
The words sliced through the calm like a page turned with force. Short. Clear. Unflinching. His voice was slow, but carried no hesitation.
Aizen met his gaze for a moment- unmoved. Sayuri, nestled in his lap, toyed with the edge of his haori as if her quiet world remained untouched.
Ukitake straightened, his expression shifting to gravity. "Important records from the Twelfth Division," he added. "Mayuri made a point to show them to us himself."
Byakuya crossed his arms, his features even sharper than usual.
"Regarding Hyourinmaru," he said. "And someone who should no longer be alive."
Ukitake cast a quick glance at Byakuya, silently asking to continue. When he received a nod, he did:
"Kurotsuchi-taichō recovered forgotten records from the Academy, from the time when Toshiro Hitsugaya was still a student. What we discovered..." - he hesitated briefly, choosing his words with care in the presence of the child now settled at the room’s center - "is that he was not the only one to awaken Hyourinmaru.""
Aizen did not move, but his eyes narrowed slightly. Just enough to show he was listening intently. Far more intently than it appeared.
"Two students. Two Hyourinmaru. The same name, the same spirit, manifested through two different individuals." Ukitake spoke carefully, though without softening the facts. "The Academy classified it as an anomaly. Central 46 intervened. They forced the two to fight... and only one of them was permitted to continue existing as the zanpakutō's wielder."
Byakuya took over, as direct as ever.
"The other, Sōjirō Kusaka, was officially declared dead. But now we know that report was incomplete. Manipulated, perhaps. Kusaka did not die as recorded. And he has returned."
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was dense. Like a curtain slowly descending over a play about to shift acts. Aizen finally raised his eyes toward Sayuri- just long enough to confirm she was still settled against him- then redirected his gaze to Ukitake and Byakuya, the lines of his expression sharpening with thought.
"It is inconceivable for two individuals to wield the same zanpakutō concurrently," Aizen stated, his voice calm and measured, the cadence of one pronouncing an immutable law. "Not even under the guise of a spiritual anomaly. Such a notion contradicts the very foundations upon which the Academy’s doctrines are established."
He did not look directly at either of the taichōs before him. His attention remained on the center of the low table, where the steam from the now-lukewarm tea continued to rise slowly, as though time itself moved more languidly there.
"Each of us present," he continued, his voice velvety and unwavering, "with the exception of Sayuri- who, quite understandably, remains exempt from such formal principles- is fully cognizant of that truth. And yet, here we find ourselves, engaged in discourse as though this impossibility were somehow plausible."
At that moment, Sayuri, who had been quietly shifting for the past few minutes, rolled gently from her father's lap, slipped down from his folded legs to the soft tatami, and ended up on her belly. She propped herself on her small hands and began to crawl, focused, toward the empty space beneath the table.
Byakuya observed everything from the corner of his eye, but his expression remained unchanged.
"Then how do you propose we explain it?" he asked, his tone composed but firm. "If such duplication is indeed impossible, how is it that Hyourinmaru appears to respond to two distinct shinigami?"
Aizen did not answer at once. Instead, he brought a hand to the hilt of his zanpakutō, resting silently at his side. His fingers passed over Kyoka Suigetsu's tsuka with a light, almost reverent gesture, more like recalling a memory than preparing a response.
"This individual, Kusaka," he began, his tone composed and contemplative, "appears to have accessed something exceedingly rare- an ill-understood manifestation of power. It is not, in truth, a traditional ice-type zanpakutō. The resemblance to Hyourinmaru proved deceptive to all- perhaps even to himself.
He lifted his gaze, meeting Byakuya's with quiet deliberation. "What Central 46 perceived was merely the surface- an anomalous manifestation, certainly. However, one which, had it been subjected to proper scrutiny, might have unveiled a deeper truth. The behavioral patterns recorded in that decades-old report, while admittedly incomplete and constrained by limited insight, indicate, in my estimation, a spiritual phenomenon more consistent with manifestations rooted in kidō."
Ukitake frowned faintly. "Kidō?"
"Indeed," Aizen affirmed with a measured inclination of the head. "Not in the conventional sense of incantation or direct energy manipulation, but rather in regard to spiritual architecture. A zanpakutō not forged from a singular elemental essence such as ice, earth, or wind... but one born through assimilation. Projection. A mimetic spirit, endowed with the capacity to replicate the form and power of other zanpakutō."
He leaned back slightly, one hand now resting on the table, as if concluding a thought aloud, more for himself than for the others.
"Should that assumption prove accurate, then Kusaka never held the true Hyourinmaru. What he wielded was but a flawless imitation- a spiritual manifestation conjured through his bond with Hitsugaya. A projection of power, sustained by emotional resonance."
Ukitake leaned forward slightly, eyes intent. "Sustained... by emotional resonance?"
"Precisely," Aizen murmured. "They were friends, were they not?"
The silence that followed was heavier than any objection.
Ukitake eventually nodded. "There are records. They were in the same class. Very close, according to some former instructors. Training partners. Inseparable."
Aizen lowered his gaze to the table once more, his peripheral awareness attuned to the soft movements of Sayuri beneath the wooden frame. "It is not at all inconceivable," he stated with composed precision, "that a young man, possessing a latent and ill-defined ability, should find himself profoundly bound to another whose spiritual power had already begun to flourish. It is entirely plausible that Kusaka perceived in him a rival, a reflection- perhaps even an ideal."
"And the trauma of forced combat," Ukitake added, his voice quieter now. "Being torn from that bond. Judged. Silenced."
"A trauma of such magnitude," Aizen remarked, his tone that of one articulating an immutable certainty, "serves to seal the gates of awareness. It impairs perception, distorts reality. And if Kusaka did, in truth, possess a mimetic spirit- or even a residual fragment of such a phenomenon- then it is entirely conceivable that he has, until now, believed without question that his blade was authentic. That Hyourinmaru was rightfully his."
Byakuya said nothing for several seconds. Then, with his habitual coldness:
"And you believe that justifies what he is doing now?"
"No," Aizen replied, his tone clipped but unwavering. "However, it does provide a framework through which his actions may be understood. And those who are wholly convinced by the fabrications they themselves have constructed," he continued, his voice low, composed, and disquietingly serene for the gravity of his words, "are invariably the most perilous."
The words lingered in the air like a dense fog suspended between the three men. Ukitake's gaze remained fixed on the center of the table, contemplative. Byakuya, however, for the briefest of moments- so brief it could have passed unnoticed- lowered his eyes. His head remained still, but his gaze dropped to the tatami at the intersection of his formally crossed legs. His face betrayed nothing. No flicker of expression.
And yet- there it was. The subtlest glimpse of unease.
With the same restrained elegance as ever, Byakuya reclined slightly from the table. He did not uncross his legs, nor did he shift the formal precision of his posture. The movement was minute, exquisitely controlled.
It was then that Sayuri emerged.
She crawled out from beneath the table with the same cautious curiosity as a small woodland creature, her expression solemn, her cheeks faintly flushed with the effort of her journey. She crept forward without hesitation, paying no heed to the space already occupied. Upon rising to her knees, she placed herself squarely in the narrow space between Byakuya's crossed legs.
His lap.
Her wide caramel eyes met his with a solemn focus- curious, almost contemplative- like a young scholar encountering something sacred for the first time. Silent, she placed her small hands on his knees and settled there with the grave composure of someone who believed she belonged exactly where she was.
Byakuya remained frozen. Rigid. Like some ancestral monument into which a passing sparrow had nestled. He did not touch the child. Nor did he recoil. No gesture of discomfort marked his frame- but his pale eyes slowly lifted, meeting Aizen's with the precision of a drawn blade.
There was no visible emotion in that look. But there was intention.
Aizen held the stare without flinching. Serene. Poised. His head inclined just slightly, hands resting on the table in perfect stillness. He did not need to speak; his gaze carried the full measure of challenge:
"I dare you to object."
The moment hung suspended. Ukitake, perhaps out of wisdom or practiced instinct, sipped from his cup with unbothered grace, as if nothing at all had occurred. Feigning normalcy, after all, was its own quiet mastery.
Sayuri made herself comfortable. Nestling beside the silent man, she reached up- gently, deliberately- and caught a strand of his hair between her fingers. She examined it with intense concentration, lips pursed in silent judgment, as though gauging its uniqueness without any need for comparison.
Byakuya held still- stoic, unmoved- but the faint tightening of his jaw betrayed that he was, perhaps, dangerously close to feeling something.
Aizen raised his teacup- not to drink, but to maintain the illusion of idle civility. His gaze never wavered. Calm. Untroubled. Yet gleaming with quiet triumph.
Sayuri had chosen Byakuya.
And Aizen knew that the Kuchiki could no longer escape.
Byakuya stayed perfectly still, mastering the moment with the same composed rigidity that had long shielded him from the burden of reaction. But Sayuri, undeterred, continued to toy with the captured strand, her fingers moving with quiet fascination, as if handling an heirloom rather than the living emblem of Kuchiki pride.
At last, with the kind of controlled grace that precedes execution, he moved to dislodge her- not abruptly, but with precise detachment, as though handling a volatile artifact. Sayuri noticed immediately. She saw the hands, and they were not her father’s, nor Momo’s, whom she tolerated with practiced leniency.
These hands were unfamiliar, and therefore unwelcome. Her gaze turned sharp, caramel eyes narrowing in a crystallized suspicion that bordered on protest. Before those hands could make contact, her small form tensed, lungs expanding in preparation to unleash what would surely be the most betrayed wail of her life.
But the cry never came.
“Sayuri,” Aizen spoke, soft and unhurried, a breath shaped into sound. He did not raise his voice; he simply let her name fall into the space between them, and that alone sufficed. Her mouth closed at once. Though her eyes remained locked on Byakuya with a silent indignation, Aizen's calm and unyielding command rendered any rebellion inert. "That will suffice," he added, never once looking at her.
With a muted sound- part sigh, part sulk- Sayuri surrendered. In an exaggerated, yet curiously calculated motion, she flung herself from Byakuya’s lap and rolled face down onto the tatami. The impact was softened by the mat, but the message was undeniable: she had been wronged. She lay there in still protest, a heap of tousled hair and loose fabric, breathing into the floor like a martyr to the injustice of discipline.
Byakuya retracted his hands slowly, as if they had never been intended to reach her in the first place. Aizen brought the cup to his lips again, this time taking a deliberate sip despite the tea’s cloying sweetness, while Sayuri continued to lie motionless, awaiting perhaps the unlikely reversal of her father's decree.
Ukitake, no stranger to the unpredictable rhythms of such encounters, lifted his cup with a steady hand, the faintest trace of amusement touching his features as he observed the silent drama unfold.
“She is rather expressive in her gestures,” he observed, as one might comment on an approaching change in weather.
“Indeed,” Aizen responded, his tone composed and refined, each syllable articulated with the poise of one well accustomed to unquestioned authority.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
If a future version of Anakin had’ve told him that the catchups between himself, the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order, the aide of a Sith Lord senator and the aide’s nephew, were the favourite part of his week then lightsabers would’ve been drawn. Instead, Yoda rolled along the floor, tears leaking from his eyes while Anakin sobbed arm in arm with him. The pretence of any intelligence gathering had long since been expunged out the nearest window, in favour of Luke’s most salacious offerings while serving under his Sith Master. It was intelligence the Council had to admit, but… not quite the sort of intelligence they’d been expecting. They’d been expecting
military
intelligence about the Sith, not disparagement of Banite Sith
collective
intelligence in and of itself.
“Oh, heavens no,” the aide blinked, his face the picture of confusion. “Lord Vader requires therapy for anyone with inexplicable delusions of grandeur or psychosis. The Sith
wield
the Force. They are not to be
wielded
by the Force. Running around like a lunatic simply isn’t tolerated. The Force is an instrument handled in the completion of a task and the moment one of his apprentices is wielded they become a slave to the will of the Force. It’s unacceptable.” Luke’s nose crinkled, as if the rotting, remnants of Vader's victims had wafted by instead of the slightest suggestion of Banite doctrine.
“Match our understanding of the ways of the Sith, this does not,” Yoda gurgled.
“Oh, it’s straightforward,” Ben shugged. “His Lordship organises a group meeting and everyone takes turns talking about whatever ails them. You know,” the aide waved a hand. “Prophetic dreams, whispers of power, pulling sensations towards artefacts and unstable moods. The usual.” Anakin’s head turned so fast his neck popped. But no, there was no hint of mockery on Ben’s face. “Lord Vader calls it a sanity check.”
“Attended one, have you?” Yoda croaked, his eyes growing ever wider.
“Of course! Not like anyone else there is going to keep a minutes of the meetings, are they?” Luke rolled his eyes.
Minutes
. Anakin bit the inside of his cheek. The Sith kept
minutes
for their group… therapy sessions… where they talked about their feelings and their connection to the Force.
“Minutes?” Yoda repeated with saucer eyes. “Odd this is. Have such discussions, the Jedi do not. Between Jedi Master and student in a personal capacity, they do occur. Irregular though, are even those meetings.”
Silence permeated the space. An invisible giant leaned over and pressed both Anakin and Yoda into the ground.
Vader's aide stared. “The Jedi… don’t… have group discussions about their connection to the Force?” The disbelief that dripped from Luke’s voice was thicker than the molasses Master Yoda had been cheerfully shovelling into his tea minutes earlier.
Slowly, Anakin shook his head. “I didn’t exactly grow up the same as the other younglings did, but we had group classes for other academic subjects, not group…” Anakin fumbled for the words. “Sanity checks, as you say Vader calls them. We don’t engage in them.” Or even talk about them for… for what actually? Why didn’t the Jedi have group discussions about the Force and other issues? While it was normal to release unwanted feelings into the Force, Anakin better than anyone could’ve pointed out that Jedi had to be emotionally grounded enough to manage that in the first place. Releasing emotion into the Force could only be managed if the emotion was identified in the first place. While the Jedi were big on reaching out with their feelings, the identifying and management of those feelings hadn’t ever been a strong part of any training Anakin had been provided over the years. Anakin had received more instruction in differentiating beard conditioner from superglue than he ever had classes identifying negative emotions and Force connections.
“You seriously don’t?” Ben blinked at them, his teacup frozen halfway to his mouth.
“No,” Yoda answered gravely. “Private, such matters are, between master and student, not for group discourse.”
Uncomfortable didn’t even begin to describe the situation. Appalled covered only the tiniest of cross sections for the reaction they’d received. How were any of the Jedi meant to know discussing Force performance problems was the norm in other Orders? It wasn’t like the Banite Sith ever stopped by for tea in their feuds stretching for thousands of years. Nor were the Jedi on amiable terms with other Force Sensitive organisations or cultures. Anakin didn’t doubt for a second that the Jedi preference for lightsaber diplomacy was a Krayt dragon sized factor. As much as the Jedi preached tolerance, Anakin hadn’t seen it in practice, from the lowest youngling all the way up to Masters Yoda and Windu. This set of interactions between Sith employees and Jedi was a stroke of dumb luck, for the will of the Force as far as the Jedi viewed it, did not encourage weekly high tea with the enemy. Nor did it encourage exchanging frilly recipe books, aprons, wooden spoons or any number of cooking utensils Master Yoda had snuck out from of the kitchens. Or at least they hadn’t encouraged it, until the entire Jedi Order had collectively decided that breaking Master Yoda’s heart, by reminding him that his two new best friends were Sith agents, wasn’t in the interests of anyone who expected to surface from corrective training in their lifetime.
The aide’s eyes has widened. “This explains so much!” Luke sliced a hand through the air and leapt to his feet as he paced. “Lord Vader was wondering why none of the Jedi had noticed Count Dooku joining the Banite Sith and it’s because none of you talk to each other!”
Luke’s battered teapot exploded in a spray of steam and pottery shards that Anakin hurriedly redirected away from their guests. Said guests dived backwards with precisely the sort of reflexes that gave them such high value employment with their Sith overlord.
“Done what now, has Count Dooku?” Master Yoda whispered, his ears had flattened to his skull, his eyes round and moist.
On the bright side, Obi-Wan now had full justification for replacing Luke’s teapot with Order funds.
But
Dooku
!?
“What are we doing?” Ben was squinting at a starmap while his uncle furiously flicked through the holo’s news channels. While wall to wall coverage of Vader’s military conquests might’ve been flattering in any other situation, but now it proved to be distinctly unhelpful in whatever Luke was trying to gauge from the coverage.
“Hell if I know,” Luke shrugged with irritation and flung the remote off to the side.
“What? How don’t you know? You’re the one who taught us history in the first place!” Much abridged and lacking detail, but history nonetheless. Not that it was Luke’s fault either with the Empire’s censorship obliterating the Sith involvement in the Clone Wars long before Luke was old enough to remedy the problem.
“Kiddo, all the history I know talks about the Clone Wars
happening
. The hit Sheev Palpatine autobiography
My Cult, My Sith Life
unfortunately never made it to the publishers after father evicted him from the mortal coil,” Luke groaned with a wring of his hands. “I know that Dooku is a Banite Sith that father killed prior to him becoming Palpatine’s Sith Apprentice.”
Which is precisely why Ben’s uncle had outed Dooku, knowing full well that he was risking impalement via teapot. “So what
don’t
we know?”
“Everything else!” Luke groaned and Ben spotted a living shadow drape itself over his uncle’s shoulders. “Apparently, Obi-Wan was captured on Genosis. Father and mother went to rescue him and were captured as well. Their rescue by the Jedi Order and the clone army is what kicked off the Clone Wars.” He frantically gestured. “But I don’t have the timeline on that, nor is there an army of clones to provide to the Jedi Order, because we offered to rehouse all of them,” which had caused Ben and the others more than a small amount of distress at the quantity of red tape involved in the process. “Aunt Beru said that mother and father spent time together when he was assigned as her bodyguard, but instead we’ve got father, Darth Maul, Obi-Wan and mother all involved in investigation of the dark arts of Jedi Order finances and we annihilated all of the organisations meant to be doing the capturing.” Luke’s head was in his hands. “So the only leads we have are Dooku and Palpatine directly, because
I don’t know
who the other players are at this point in the war. Someone has to be funding Palpatine and Dooku external to the Jedi Order, but that’s going to take time as well.”
“And we can’t exactly ask anyone about it either,” Ben noted as the significance of Luke’s complaints sank in. “Lord Vader’s meant to be an all knowing tyrant, not someone working off a first grade, homeschooled history education from Tatooine.” Nor, with what they’d discovered during the Hutt purges, were they ever going to tell anyone about their status as travellers from a galaxy far far away on the timeline. Contrary to the claims of Ben’s mother, the corruption ripping through the Republic was alive and well right into the foundation of Palpatine's Empire, which was more of a new coat of paint than it was a regime change.
“And dead people,” Luke added under his breath. “Obi-Wan did his best to fill in the gaps, but if the Jedi back in this period knew what was going on, Palpatine wouldn’t have made it to power in the first place.”
“And grandfather?” Not that he was talkative either, according to Luke.
“His ghost was substantially less chatty than Obi-Wan or Yoda and even they were less keen after I took all of you kids in, well above age requirements.” Luke rolled his eyes. “The dead keep plenty of secrets and aren’t worth asking about them. Plus, I haven’t seen any trace of them in this timeline, so they’re off the table too,” Luke added, drumming his fingers on the table.
“Speaking of things we don’t know about… Did Mara ever work out what happened to that Sith artefact that brought us here?” Ben scratched his head with a stylus.
“Nope. Nothing. Not so much as a Sith holocron pointing out its existence.” There was a gentle breeze that rattled the ship, as if Luke had sighed through the Force.
“So what’s the plan? We’ve got no holocron and no other information about the big names in the war…” But it wasn’t that Luke had no idea what to do, it was that the only alternative was strongly undesired and wasn’t a preferred method of resolving their lack of information.
Luke’s eyes glinted with unholy light. “First, we suppress Palpatine, then we deal with Dooku and any of his other pawns in the Confederacy. What I
do
know is that the original Death Star was already being constructed prior to the end of the Clone Wars.” He cracked his knuckles menacingly. “And that’s an awful lot of scrap we can use for ship parts.” Yes, that was definitely on brand for Lord Vader.
She was most definitely not ten standard years. She was not Ann. She was
Lady
Ann and she was the overseer of the Sith Temple on Nar Shaddaa. A megastructure that would serve as a monument and to the glory of Darth Vader’s offering to the Dark Side and the power he wielded through it. The filth on Nar Shaddaa had been excised to make way for his immaculate glory and a tribute to all matters as they should be in the eyes of the Sith Master. At least that was Luke’s public stance on the temple, according to the helpful pamphlet and guide that had been provided to the students chosen to housesit their new library location.
Privately though, moving Grakkus the Hutt’s stash of Jedi artefacts had been such a bone breaking task that they had to ask: what would Han Solo do? Han Solo, their teacher had decided, wouldn’t have bothered moving all of his ill gotten gains from a place of security, until he was able to secure payment from a reliable buyer. In this case, they themselves were the buyer and the holocrons could be used to educate the other students, so it made sense to leave them in place.
Especially
with the Jedi poking around Nar Shaddaa, hunting for more information on the “Sith” who had chosen to remain on the moon. If he found their stash of holocrons, it’d give the Jedi a tangible reason to investigate Lord Vader beyond him being a Sith Lord.
Except, their regular Jedi spy hadn’t been around for a couple of weeks now. Quinlan Vos who’d gone out of his way to shadow and stalk Ann and Luke’s other students had inexplicably packed his bags and fled the planet faster than a bounty hunter being boarded for a weapons systems inspection. Only Ann and the others hadn’t
done
any more than the usual and there were no signs of Vos upping and leaving with their regular management of the moon.
As it stood right now, construction was proceeding smoothly. All of the Jedi holocrons and other artefacts had been carefully concealed as decorations in the walls of an otherwise, unremarkable, decorative meeting room in the basement level. The rest of the levels were still underway, with plumbing precisely as infuriating as everyone could remember from when the same had to be done at their old temple. Still, Quinlan Vos’ retreat from his investigation might prove problematic if he was returning to Coruscant with new information.
All Ann could do was send word to Luke and hope that he, along with the older kids, had a better idea of what exactly had scared Quinlan Vos away from Nar Shaddaa.
The drums of war were beating on Nar Shaddaa, but not for The Clone Wars or the slaughter that acted as the vanguard to its arrival. Instead, a funeral march beat for the millions of lives ejected into the Unified Force at the hands of an unfettered fleet and its Master. Dying screams yet wailed from beyond the grave and the Dark Side welcomed them with open arms. A rotating nexus of seething terror that radiated from very soil beneath his feet, tainted by the detritus of sapients and the telltale signs of a glassing. Lord Vader had been most thorough in his cleansing of the Smuggler’s Moon. It would be thousands of years at the bare minimum before the Force and the Dark Side lapsed in its rapt attention.
There was no whisper of the Trade Federation. No tattle of disunity from either the reluctant or dogmatic member systems of the Confederacy. No hiss of malcontent from the elitists within the Senate. The Confederacy may as well have never existed, for they were spoken of as only an afterthought. A mere curiosity compared to the force that washed away the lingering stench of the Hutts and their once booming slave trade. No, only whispers of
Darth Vader, Senator of Tatooine
carried through all levels of the would be sides of The Clone Wars.
The Republic were in awe, for even the Jedi had no retort to Darth Vader’s rhetoric. How could they when his methods boasted superior efficacy and political support from all but the most suicidal? Paralysed by indecision, the Jedi Order too could only brace as their moment for avoiding the ballistic impact of the Sith had long since passed. It was already the aftermath and they were yet to notice.
Meanwhile, throughout it all, the Separatists held their breath in escalating terror as the implication of war with Darth Vader settled deep within their minds. Darth Tyranus was not prepared for a war against a seasoned opponent. Vader was a veteran. Evident in every step, every blow, each calculated amount of cruelty that was mete out unto his foolish opposition. One could only imagine the Master of Tyranus and his wrath at the rug that had been gleefully yanked out from under him by a parallel within the Sith and not an inferior. Or perhaps, Darth Vader was Darth Sidious’ superior and retaliation had already been attempted, only to fail while the latter struggled in the mailed fist of the latest arrival in the galactic power struggle.
The criminal organisations said nothing at all, lest they catch the Sith’s eye. Of all of the factions involved in this farce, this reaction was the most conducive towards long term survival. To fail to exist figuratively within the eyes of the galaxy’s grand stage was preferable than to attract Vader’s attention and cease to exist all.
Silent step after silent step, he followed the robed figures as they flitted between rooftops. Children, he realised with a pang of longing, as one reached out to grab another that had slipped between leaps. Reminiscent of the Jedi younglings, but far more determined in their stride. Extruding the Dark Side’s malevolence, clinging to them in the form of an oily film… yet… the lingering taste of suffering one would expect from apprentices at such an age was lacking. Their steps were all swagger and bounce, not riddled with the crushing weight of their Master’s expectations. Even for a non-Banite Sith, their behaviour was not within the typical expectations of the Sith or the Jedi.
These children were not suffering in their apprenticeships. They and their Master were another entity entirely. An anomaly in the long game that had been played between the Jedi and the Sith since the dawn of the two orders. There was a third faction at play in this familiar, yet strange series of events.
So he followed them, cloaked in the natural energies of the moon itself, all the way back to the temple that was partway through construction. Through a maze of beams, stone and durasteel with gaps and holes intended for as receptacles for some other object. A design lifted from Malachor’s own Sith temple, but decorated with nascent flairs of an esoteric style, more fitting to Tatootine’s traditional architecture than what was typical of the Sith. Another curiosity to be unravelled. He followed them until they met up with a third figure, he recognised as the leader of the band of Sith apprentices for this planet.
“This is to be delivered to Lord Vader directly.” Another child, this time, a Twi’lek girl no older than ten standard years was handing over a datapad to two he’d stalked across the surface.
A wheezing rasp of pure oxygen filled his aching lungs.
Yes. “Lord Vader” was a mystery indeed, but a slow and direct path to him was better than no path at all. After all, he had nothing but time.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
“Jones!” The corrections officer threw open the metal doors of the holding cell with a loud clang. Jessica winced, and opened one eye to glare at her balefully. “You’re free to go. Your lawyer posted your bail.”
“Bout time.” Jessica grumbled. She peeled herself off of the back bench and slouched toward the exit of the cell. “Later Simmons. See you next time.”
The officer snorted. “Not if I can help it.”
Jessica cracked a grin, and then collected her things from holding. She walked out of the precinct, and blinked a little as she stepped out into the fresh air and sunshine, scanning her eyes to find…
“Murdock?” Jessica said in surprise. “
You
posted my bail? I thought Simmons said it was my lawyer?”
Matt turned to her, cane in hand. “Foggy’s tied up in court. He called me to come and fetch you. And he also told me to tell you
not
to get picked up on any more breaking and entering charges. He said, and I quote, ‘that he’s a good lawyer, but the best lawyer in the world wouldn’t be able to get you off a B&E for a
fourth
time.’”
“It was hardly breaking and entering.” Jessica huffed. “I was on the fire escape. How am I supposed to take pictures for my clients if I can’t go on fire escapes? Come on man, this is my livelihood.”
Matt shook his head ruefully. “Take it up with him next time you two go out drinking-sorry, I meant, ‘have a meeting.’”
Jessica grinned, and they fell into a companionable silence as they walked down the sidewalk together. “I don’t know about you.” Jessica said. “But something about being in jail really works up an appetite.”
Matt raised an eyebrow at her. Ten minutes later, they were ensconced in a booth at a nondescript diner, as Jessica wolfed down a huge sandwich across from Matt, who looked at her, nonplussed. “Feeling better?”
“I’ll feel better when I can get home to shower and sleep away this hangover.” Jessica sighed. She straightened up a little and looked at Matt, who sat with his fingers tapping idly on the table. He had a glass of water in front of him, but no food.
“So.” Jessica said innocently. “What’s new with you Murdock?”
Matt shrugged. “Nothing much.” He continued tapping.
“Really?” Jessica had a pointed tone to her voice. “Nothing new eh?”
Matt raised his eyebrows at her underneath his glasses. He straightened up a little, fussing with his tie. “Nope.”
“Hmm.” Jessica said in a sing-song voice. “You know, Foggy and I had a ‘meeting’ the other night. At a bar in Harlem.”
“I’m aware.” Matt said dryly. “He practically poured out of his cab when he got home. I don’t think he’s been that drunk since law school.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Jessica said, unbothered. “So I ask again, are you
sure
there’s nothing new going on with you? No, I don’t know…new activities to report?”
“None that are any of your business.” Matt said calmly. He nodded at Jessica’s plate. “You done?”
“Come on Matt!” Jessica huffed. “I already know, so you might as well tell me.”
“I don’t make a habit to go around telling people about my sex life.” Matt dropped his nonchalant attitude. “And I
definitely
don’t share about Foggy’s sex life.”
“I told you, he already shared it with me.” Jessica said stubbornly. “So drop the holier than thou attitude already, jeez.”
“Foggy told you?” Matt said suspiciously. “Really?”
“He was pretty drunk.”Jessica said. Matt huffed loudly. “But even if he didn’t, I would have known.” Jessica continued. “He was like a wiggly puppy over it.”
Matt’s mouth twitched, despite himself. “Yeah, he’s a bit excited.” Matt acquiesced, dropping his voice a little so as not to be overheard. “He
is
a bit like a puppy, you’re right.”
“A sex puppy.” Jessica mused out loud.
Matt’s face went a bit pink. “Don’t call him that.”
“What’s up with you? I thought you’d be happy.” Jessica said bluntly.
“I am. I am happy.” Matt said quickly.
“He was practically glowing.” Jessica continued. “You must have really rocked his world.”
“Yeah, it was great.” Matt said, a bit distractedly. He picked up his glass of water and took a sip from it.
Jessica watched him across the table through narrowed eyes. “Jeez, don’t display your enthusiasm all over the table, Murdock.”
Matt huffed. “What do you want me to say? Alright, it was amazing, like I knew it would be. Foggy did amazing. He was being so good, Jess. He asked for exactly what he wanted, and he didn’t freeze up or have to stop once.”
“...Ok.” Jessica said slowly.
Matt sighed loudly and put his glass back down on the table. “We haven’t done
that
since, but Foggy has been very…enthusiastic about other things.”
“And that’s a problem because what, you can’t keep up with him?” Jessica smirked at Matt, who rolled his eyes. “Trust me. That’s not it.”
“Ok.” Jessica said again.
Matt sighed again and shifted a little in the booth. “It’s just…different. Then how he was acting before. I don’t really know what to make of it. The other night he sat on my lap and-” Matt’s face went red and he cut himself off. “We should probably go.”
“He what?” Jessica said with interest. Matt shook his head at her, and Jessica snapped her fingers as though she had suddenly recalled something. “Ohh, are you talking about when he grinded on your lap and made you come in your pants?”
“
Jess.”
Matt hissed. “Jesus Christ, keep your voice down. He
told
you about that?”
“What? It’s just girl talk.” Jessica said.
Matt groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses. “Ok, I am going to have a talk with Foggy about what is and isn’t appropriate to share with clients.”
“A client? Wow.” Jessica shook her head in mock hurt. “I see how it is. Look-” Jessica dropped her attitude and leaned in a little across the table. “He’s just excited right now. He’ll calm down eventually. You should just enjoy it while it lasts. I thought this was what you wanted? For Foggy to not be afraid to touch you, or have you touch
him
.”
“Of course I want that.” Matt said, slightly subdued. “And I am enjoying it. Clearly. Which I guess now you
and
Luke know, Jesus.”
Jessica smirked at him. “Hey, there’s n “I” in team.”
Matt groaned and shook his head. “Ok that’s it. This conversation is officially over.”
Jessica threw her napkin onto the remains of her sandwich and Matt threw a couple of bills onto the table as they both stood up, preparing to leave. “Hey, there’s worse things in the world than your boyfriend wanting to get it on. Put on a happy face, Murdock. You’re getting exactly what you wanted.”
***
Foggy wiggled a bit in his office chair, waiting for the minutes on the clock to count down to 5pm.
Karen had already left for the day, after saying something vague about meeting up with an informant. When Foggy had asked her, curiously, who the informant was, she had deflected and beat a hasty exit.
“Matt, I think Karen is hiding things from us again.” Foggy had frowned after her, a worried tone in his voice.
To his surprise, Matt had grinned. “Oh she definitely is,” he said casually.
Foggy had whipped around to stare at him. “
You
know who she’s been seeing? She told you and not me? No offense, but what the hell?”
Matt grinned. “Don’t be offended, Fogs.” He said soothingly. “She didn’t tell me either. Let’s just say that I recognize the particular brand of aftershave that she comes back wearing after her little-er-’informant meetups.’”
“And I guess you’re not going to tell me who it is either?” Foggy huffed, crossing his arms.
“It’s not my place.” Matt said serenely. “But
you
also know who he is-nope-” he held up a finger as Foggy opened his mouth. “-I’m not going to tell you, so don’t even try.”
“Fine.” Foggy complained. “You and Karen keep your secrets for all I care. I guess it’s keeping Foggy in the dark hours again at Nelson, Murdock and Page.”
Infuriatingly, Matt had just continued grinning at him. “You’re very cute when you get all huffy.” He said placidly. “Come here.”
Foggy glared at him. “What? No.”
“Foggy.” Matt said. Amusement was written all over his face. “Come here and kiss me.”
Foggy glared at him again, but he stomped over to where Matt was leaning back against his desk, his arms folded. He uncrossed his arms when Foggy stomped up to stand in front of him, scowling. When Matt reached out to gently grasp him by the chin, Foggy sighed loudly and rolled his eyes, but he allowed Matt to tilt his face up and kiss him softly on the mouth.
“Don’t think you can just kiss me whenever you want me to stop being annoyed with you.” Foggy mumbled.
He felt Matt smile against his mouth. “I would never dream of doing that.” He murmured.
Foggy snorted inelegantly, and then had gone back to his desk in an attempt to get some more work done, but had spent most of the remaining time watching the clock instead.
The clock landed on the five. Foggy immediately stood up from his desk, walked over to Matt’s office, and then closed and locked the office door behind him. Matt raised his eyebrows at him as Foggy walked around his desk. “Can I help you?”
Fogg didn’t say anything. Instead, he settled himself on Matt’s knee, sitting sideways in his lap. Matt rolled back from his desk a little, and his arm came up automatically to grip around Foggy’s waist.
Foggy leaned down and kissed Matt full on the mouth. Matt made a little startled sound, before kissing him back.
“Remember when I sucked you off in here?” Foggy murmured. He kissed a path across Matt’s jaw, feeling his perpetual stubble tickle his lips, before kissing down his neck lazily.
Matt shifted a little in his chair, his legs falling open a little wider. “Uh, think I recall that, yeah.”
“Mmm.” Foggy found a spot by Matt’s collar and sucked on it. Matt’s chair squeaked as he shifted. “You told me that we couldn’t do sexy stuff in the office anymore.”
Matt huffed a little. “I believe my exact words were, ‘not during business hours,’ but yes.”
“Not on the clock anymore, are we?” Foggy whispered. He reached up and undid the top button on Matt’s shirt. Matt had taken off his tie a few hours ago, once their last client meeting had adjourned. Foggy heard Matt’s quick inhale of breath. “Fogs-”
Foggy ducked his head further down to tongue at Matt’s clavicle that he had exposed, at the same time that he placed his hand directly over Matt’s zipper, cupping the outline of his dick through his slacks. Matt’s head fell back against his office chair, and his hand shot out to grip Foggy by the wrist, stilling it. His grip was very tight. “Foggy.” Matt’s voice was firm. “What are you doing?”
Undeterred, Foggy lifted his face and put his mouth directly over Matt’s ear. “Want you.” He murmured. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
Matt’s resolve cracked a little. “Yeah?” His voice was a bit deeper than it had been a second ago. “What have you been thinking about?”
“How good you felt inside of me.” Foggy said shamelessly.
Matt’s breath whooshed out of him. He let go of Foggy’s hand, and Foggy immediately traced a finger down the front of Matt’s pants, fiddling with the zipper. “Matt, I want it.” He whined. He shifted on Matt’s knee, staring into his face imploringly. “I want you to fuck me again. Please, please, please-”
“Foggy, Jesus Christ.” Matt choked out. His head was on the back of his chair, his face staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, his eyes darting back and forth. “You couldn’t wait to do this when we got home? I’ll be arrested on a public indecency charge if I go out like this.”
“I’ll be your lawyer.” Foggy said immediately. He kissed Matt on the jaw again, going up to his ear to breathe against it. “We don’t have to wait.” He whispered. “There’s nobody else around.”
Matt swallowed. Foggy saw his adams apple bob in his throat. He licked his lips. Foggy was still playing with Matt’s zipper and he felt his erection twitch against his hand. “...I’ll go down on you.” Matt said at last, after a moment. “And when we get home, if you still want it, and I haven’t internally combusted, then we can have sex.”
“
Matt
.” Foggy pouted. “I don’t want your mouth. I want your cock. I want you to come inside of me, like you did last time.”
Matt swore and he again gripped Foggy hard by the wrist. “You going to make me beg?” Foggy continued, panting against Matt’s neck. “Do you want me to get on my knees and beg you? I will.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Matt hissed. “Baby, we don’t
have
anything here. How will I take you? Be reasonable.”
“Bend me over the desk.” Foggy said.
Matt stiffened, and he stood up so suddenly that Foggy was almost unceremoniously dumped onto the floor, only managing to catch himself and stumble to his feet at the last second. Foggy scrambled and clung to the corner of the desk, turning slightly to look at Matt. Matt, whose chest was heaving as he faced Foggy, his hands on his hips.
“You know you can’t be taken that way.” Matt’s tone was sharp. He sounded angry. “Are you trying to tease me?”
“What, no.” Foggy said quickly.
“Is this some kind of test?” Matt asked. His jaw was clenched as he looked in Foggy’s direction.
“No!” Foggy sounded shocked.“I just…I just want you.” His voice trembled. “I thought…maybe, you wanted me too.”
Matt relaxed a little, his face softening. “Oh Fogs.” He held out his arm. Foggy looked at it for a second with wide eyes, before going to him, tentatively stepping close to Matt’s side, and allowing him to put his arm around his waist.
“Sorry.” Foggy said. He was shaking a little bit. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“I’m not angry.” Matt said. “Hey, no, none of that.” He put a hand on the back of Foggy’s neck and tugged his face away from his chest a little so that Foggy could look at his face. “I’m not angry, ok? You just took me a little by surprise, is all.”
“Sorry.” Foggy said again.
Matt exhaled a little,his nostrils flaring. “Don’t apologize.”
Foggy swallowed, plucking a little at Matt’s collar, smoothing his hands over his chest. “I liked it.” He said, his voice hushed. “I liked it when you fucked me. I didn’t expect to like it so much. Is that wrong?”
“No,
Fogs. It’s not wrong.” Matt said emphatically. His hand was still on the back of Foggy’s neck, gripping him. “Is that what all this has been about? You need it again?”
Foggy nodded. He tentatively placed his lips back against Matt’s neck and began kissing him again, softer this time, in little pecks. Matt shifted, tilting his head back a little, exposing his neck. “Jesus.” Matt rasped. His eyes had gone very dark. “Sweetheart, you should have told me. When we were at home, that that’s what you wanted.”
“I tried.” Foggy whispered. He was starting to pant a little bit. “Matt, I tried. I tried to tell you.”
Matt exhaled shakily. He moved his head a little on his shoulders, still staring up at the ceiling resolutely. Encouraged, Foggy ducked his face down a little to nuzzle at his collarbone. “I thought maybe you didn’t want to.”
Matt made a strangled sound. “Foggy, if I would have known that you felt this way I wouldn’t let you leave the bedroom. You have to be patient with me, alright? I don’t… His voice trailed off a little bit. For a second, he was silent, and then he continued, his voice even. “I didn’t want to presume, or be pushy. I know this isn’t easy for you. But you don’t have to be afraid to ask me for it. I
want
you to ask me for it. I always, always, want you.”
“You do?” Foggy murmured. His breath ghosted over Matt’s pulse point in his neck. He felt him twitch against him. In answer, Matt gripped him by the jaw and kissed him hard, wrapping a hand around the back of Foggy’s head. Foggy’s arm came up to wrap around Matt’s shoulder, the other coming up to fist in his shirt.
Matt pulled back a little, breathing harshly. Foggy had pulled his shirt free from his pants. They were pressed together, shoulder to knees, and Matt slipped an arm around Foggy’s waist to grip him hard by the ass, grinding him against him. Foggy made a sound in the back of his throat.
“How could you think I didn’t want it?” Matt said. “As if I haven’t been daydreaming about bending you over a desk since we were interns together.”
“Yeah?” Foggy breathed, as Matt sucked a hickey onto his neck. “
Matt.
Not above the collar. We have court.”
“Shut up.” Matt mumbled against him. “You ambushed me in my office and told me to fucking come inside of you at work. You don’t get to tell me we have court.”
Foggy squirmed. His hand went again to Matt’s zipper. Matt caught his hand and pulled it up. “
Matt.
” Foggy said in despair. Matt’s face was unmoving.
“If you want it so bad you can have me in your mouth again.” Matt said. “That should hold you over till we get home.”
Foggy groaned aloud. He wrapped his arms around Matt’s neck and Matt manhandled him backwards, until Foggy was sitting perched on the edge of his desk, Matt in between his spread legs.
“Knew you’d be this way.” Matt panted, kissing Foggy’s face and jaw messily. “Knew you’d need it this bad if you ever got fucked properly. I wanted to be the one to show it to you.”
Foggy whimpered, doubling over, when Matt pressed his thigh in between his legs, grinding where Foggy was hard and straining against his trousers. He clutched at Matt’s belt buckle and began undoing it clumsily, his fingers shaking. Matt braced himself over him, his chest heaving, his arms on either side of Foggy, gripping hard to the desk. Papers were scattered around the room.
Foggy got Matt’s belt unbuckled and his pants undone and then looked up at his face, as though awaiting further instructions.
Matt licked his lips. “Take me out.” He said hoarsely.
Foggy peeled the waistband of Matt’s boxers down and made a sound when his erection sprang up. He didn’t hesitate before leaning forward and taking Matt into his mouth.
Matt hissed through his teeth where he was still braced over Foggy, who had started bobbing his head clumsily. The only sounds in the room were Matt’s harsh breaths and the wet, soft sounds of Foggy sliding Matt into his throat from where he was still sitting back against the desk.
Matt’s head was bent over Foggy, his mouth open, bottom lip wet and shiny from where he had bitten it. His eyes were dark and glazed, staring out in front of him, unfocused.
Foggy moaned around Matt’s cock and shifted. There was a wet spot starting to stain the front of his slacks. Foggy flapped his hand, going to touch himself, before he seemed to think better of it and going back to holding it stiffly at his side. Matt noticed. He reached over and pressed the heel of his palm hard against the front of Foggy’s pants.
Foggy choked and pulled off with a wet sounding pop. “Matt.” He sounded miserable. “Matt,
please
.”
Matt’s self control broke.
He pulled Foggy up by his arm and spun him around, bending him over the desk with a hand between his shoulder blades. Foggy gripped the desk, panting, while Matt hurriedly yanked his slacks open, pulling down his pants and boxers in one tug.
Matt grabbed Foggy’s hips and ground hard against his ass, breathing raggedly. Foggy felt his erection sliding against him. Foggy widened his stance and tilted his hips up for Matt to get even closer.
‘This what you want?” Matt panted against the back of his neck. “Hmm? This what you’re so strung out for?”
“Yes.” Foggy said desperately. His heart was pounding. Matt was pressing into him so hard the edge of the desk was cutting lines into his hips. Foggy blew his hair out of his face where his bangs had fallen into his eyes.
Matt groaned against the back of his head. “How bad do you need it?” Matt sounded like he needed it pretty badly himself, his voice gone all thready. “Tell me.”
“I need it.” Foggy pressed back against him shamelessly, his hips jerking, cock fucking into nothing but air. “Matt, I need it. Please please please please-”
Matt slipped a hand around his waist and started jerking him off roughly, and Foggy almost bit his tongue in half he jolted so hard. At the same time, he took his own cock in hand and rubbed the head directly against his hole. They didn’t have lube, but Matt was slippery with Foggy’s saliva and his own pre-cum, and Foggy felt him sliding right where he wanted him, and his breath hitched in anticipation, but he was just teasing. Foggy
felt
it pressing against him, but Matt wasn’t pushing inside, just rubbing the head of his cock against him over and over while he jerked him off.
Foggy moaned and pushed back, a little desperately, in an attempt to fuck himself.
Matt bit off a sound when he was nudged barely inside, and his hand flew from Foggy’s cock to his lower back where he pressed against him firmly, stilling him.
“Absolutely
not
.” Matt said.
“Matt-” Foggy started to say, pitifully.
“I’m not taking you over my desk with no lube.” Matt’s voice was stern. “You either have it like this, or not at all.”
Chastised, Foggy hung his head in between his arms. “Like this.” He said. After a second, Matt slipped his arm back around his waist and started touching him again, a bit slower this time, starting all the way at the base, a long slow drag. Foggy shuddered.
Matt made a loose hole with his hand around the tip of Foggy’s cock. “Fuck into my hand.” He murmured, his voice low, and Foggy did, pushing his hips forward into the circle of Matt’s hand, his hips stuttering, before picking up speed.
“That’s it.” Matt was a talker during sex. Foggy sometimes wondered if it had something to do with his blindness, if his voice was a way of orienting himself to his partner, somehow. Or maybe he just did it to be a fucking menace. Either way, Foggy was always unbearably turned on by it. “I know you want to be fucked, sweetness, but you understand why I can’t, don’t you?”
Foggy made a soft sound of agreement. He couldn’t really concentrate on what Matt was saying. The pleasure was building in his pelvis, in his cock, and he was so close…
Matt was still talking behind him. He had taken himself back in hand and was back to rubbing himself against him. Foggy could hear him working on himself as his breathing picked up. “You are very cute when you’re begging for it though.”
Foggy moaned as he desperately rutted into Matt’s hand.
“I’ll stock some lube in here.” Matt continued. He was panting too. Fogy could hear the slick sounds as he jacked himself off, could feel his dick twitching wetly against his hole. “So next time you need it that bad and can’t wait, I can fuck you over my desk properly.”
That did it. Foggy came all over Matt’s hand and onto his desk with a little sob, his hips snapping forward. He sagged forward onto his elbows.
Matt grunted, and Foggy felt him push the head of his cock against him
insistently,
and then he felt the pulse and the warm wetness as he came.
Matt slumped against him, spent.
Foggy had the sudden thought that he and Matt were both still fully clothed. Christ, they were going to have to walk home like this. He groaned into the crook of his arm.
***
Later, after they had gotten home and both showered and changed and eaten dinner and Foggy was idly watching a movie on his laptop in bed, Matt rolled over onto his side and slung an arm around him. “Put that away for a second, Fogs.” He said softly. Foggy did, and then Matt caught his face in his hand and kissed him. Softly at first, and then more deeply, slipping his tongue into his mouth.
Foggy sighed into the kiss. The ever present desire that he seemed to feel for Matt these days was like a simmering ember in his belly, and it didn’t take much to fan it into a full blown flame.
“You know you can always ask me for what you want, right?” Matt murmured, kissing him. “If it’s in my power to do so, I’ll give you anything you ask for.”
“You didn’t earlier.” Foggy pointed out. As soon as the words left his mouth, he closed his lips tightly. He hadn’t meant to say that. Matt didn’t look angry though, he looked thoughtful. He was gently stroking his thumb along Foggy’s jaw, his head propped up on his other hand.
“Did you ask me at the office earlier because you knew that I would say no to you?” Matt asked him quietly. Foggy blinked at him. “What? No. I wanted it. You know that.”
“Hmm.” Matt said, thoughtful. He took his hand off of Foggy’s face and picked up his hand that was lying limp on the bed. Turning it over, he kissed the delicate skin of his wrist softly. Foggy huffed out a little laugh. It tickled slightly. Matt kissed his wrist again, and then again, moving up his arm a little. He pushed Foggy back against the pillows and hovered over him, looking down. “Ask me for what you want.” He said.
Foggy swallowed. “Matt, could you fuck me, please?”
Matt smiled down at him. “Certainly.”
Again, Matt prompted Foggy to lie back against the pillows, but this time, he had his legs over his shoulders, his ankles by his ears. When he pushed himself inside of him, Foggy’s breath caught.
His ass was nestled into the hollow of Matt’s lap and Matt thrust into him, slowly and purposefully, bending Foggy’s knees to his chest. Foggy’s mouth fell open and he closed his eyes at the feeling.
Despite having only come a few hours earlier, he didn’t last long, and neither did Matt, following him over as soon as he felt Foggy clench around him. Foggy moaned when he felt Matt pulse inside of him. Matt had called him strung out earlier, and it was true. Foggy felt like a junkie. This was his hit. He needed it all of the time now.
Foggy shivered in happiness when he felt Matt pull out and get off the bed to go get towels. His and Matt’s relationship had had a rocky start, but that was all over now. Foggy had thought that he was irreparably broken after what Larry had done to him, but here he was, having sex with his boyfriend and not even freaking out in the slightest. He could finally,
finally
be normal, and not have to worry about it anymore.
Foggy smiled and snuggled closer to Matt in the bed after he had fallen asleep beside him.
***
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Hakoda had never been a man of brash action. He sat to the sidelines, patiently waiting for the right moment to
strike
, like a predator, stalking its prey through the wilderness. Hakoda thought of himself as the predator, because he knew that that’s what he was. He was silent, he was strong, and he was deadly.
It was a wonder that he ended up as the Chief of the Southern Water Tribe. Well, actually, he
did
. He’d be an idiot to
not
. But it was more the fact that once the chiefdom was
given
to him, he was able to mold himself and the position into something that he could actually work with.
Hakoda had been a quiet child. At first glance, one may have even thought him
weak
. Anyone who looked a bit further, though, would know that that was a mistake. Hakoda was not
weak
. He was strong, and he was silent, and he was
deadly.
Ever since Hakoda had been a little boy, there hadn’t been any waterbenders left in his tribe. He knew that there were more waterbenders in the world, of course, up in the Northern Water Tribe. Their sister tribe had always been stronger than them as, after all, they were just a piece that broke away and made their own way in the world. Hakoda had never been to the northern tribe, and after the war had started the two of them had lost connection, so he had never even
written
to the water tribe across the world, let alone
seen it
.
As Hakoda had grown up, the Southern Water Tribe had seemed to get smaller and smaller.
As a teenager, maybe around fifteen, he had gone up to his mother and pointed out that the village seemed smaller than it had been when he was younger. She had laughed, patted him on the shoulder, and said he was being silly, it was just him getting bigger, not the village getting smaller, but he had seen the way her eyes had glazed with sadness as she spoke, how she looked out down the small road toward a hut that he
knew
used to be there but wasn’t any longer.
Hakoda was thirteen when he saw his first dead body.
There had been a winter chill that had blown through, harder and colder than any they had experienced in the past few decades. People had frozen in the streets, in their homes, in their beds. Whenever there was a let-up for a tiny bit of time, people would desperately haul ice from anywhere they could find it to block more holes in their huts. People would take ice from outside of the village, from the village walls, from the homes of those who had already perished from the cold. It had been horrible. When it was all finished and the chill had finally let up for good, Hakoda had run to the homes of all of his friends, calling them out to play in the warmer air. He had gotten Bato, Konak, Tirlek, and Ronka, four of his friends, and was outside the house of a fifth, ready to grab up him and head out to play.
Hakoda had pushed aside the ice and shoved open the flap, excited to see his friend (whose name was Erkulo), when he had stopped and stared, his eyes suddenly wide and his breath suddenly gone. For instead of finding his friend, ready to go off and play waterbenders and firebenders, he found the cold bodies of a family who had perished in the chill, Erkulo himself curled up against the wall, his skin blue and his eyes glued open, unseeing.
While that incident had most definitely traumatized Hakoda when he was a young boy, he had forced himself to move past it, accepted it as a part of life, and continued on living.
Hakoda was sixteen when he saw his first death.
His father had called him out to join the men of the tribe in the fishing for the day (because Hakoda
was
a man of the tribe, after completing his round of ice dodging two years ago), and Hakoda had gathered up his supplies to join them.
They had been floating along, just trying to catch a fish, when the canoe Hakoda and his father were in, along with two others, were pulled away from the group in a rough current.
As he followed his father’s desperate commands, Hakoda had looked ahead, watching the canoe that was in front of them. The other canoe had hit a chunk of ice, suddenly, and while most of the occupants held on, one of them didn’t have a good enough grasp. He flew out of the canoe and into the water with a shout and floated farther down through the current. Hakoda’s eyes had been glued to the man, who continued to flail and yell until his head suddenly slammed into another hard piece of ice and his calls abruptly fell silent. He had stopped moving and had continued to move down the current until they reached the end of it, where just a few yards into the calmer water, he started to sink.
The other canoes were too far away to reach him, and no one was moving to dive into the freezing water to help.
As Hakoda and his father’s canoe had passed by the sinking man, now multiple feet below the surface, Hakoda had noted that the water above the man was stained red.
Hakoda had been eighteen when he had seen his first Fire Nation raid.
He had often heard stories before of the Fire Nation raids of old. The ones that used to occur so often that even children recognized the signs of one approaching. Those had stopped after the last waterbender had been captured, around twenty years ago. There had been two decades of relative peace. The Fire Nation still attacked, but they never directly attacked the main Southern Water Tribe, instead focusing on smaller congregations more on the outskirts of the South Pole, or choosing to take down tiny fishing ventures that went a bit too far out.
Then, that all changed when, one day, black snow fell from the sky.
Hakoda could still remember the day vividly, even now. He had been walking with Bato away from training, just laughing and shoving each other as they strolled down the streets, watching a few girls that were passing on their daily chores. Bato had opened his mouth to catch a snowflake on his tongue when he had suddenly coughed and spit at the ground after catching one. Hakoda had patted his friend on the back and looked at the spit on the snowy ground, slightly darkened. He had looked up and seen that the snow was turning black. He had furrowed his eyebrows. He had known that he had heard of the black snow from
somewhere
before. He had felt his eyes widen as he had remembered. The black snow was from the beginnings of stories about the-
“
Fire Nation!
” A man called from the edge of the town. There had been a pause before people had erupted in a panic.
“
Men, with me!
” Hakoda’s father had called from his position on the wall. Hakoda and Bato had exchanged glances before moving forward through the crowd of the market. Women were gathering up what they could and sprinting farther into the relative safety of the village, running into whatever house was closest. Teenage girls and boys who hadn’t yet come of age scooped up the younger children and carted them off inside while others herded more people into buildings, pushing on ice and pulling flaps closed to try and block the homes off from the invaders.
Hakoda and Bato had grabbed up their weapons and yanked on their armored parkas before joining Hakoda’s father up on the wall.
There had been silence for a moment, and everything had been still, almost peaceful. It might have
been
peaceful if it wasn’t for the abandoned state of the village, the men lining the walls and the square with their weapons raised and their faces shielded from the dark snow flurrying down toward the earth.
Then, suddenly, out of the blurry snow in the distance, a large, dark shape had emerged. The bow had opened and crashed down and in moments Fire Nation soldiers had swarmed the half-mile stretch between the walls of the village and the shore the ships had landed on.
Two more ships had emerged and dumped out their soldiers as well.
There had been a moment of silence again, where everything was still, before a single Fire Nation soldier had let out a yell and the entire legion charged forward.
Hakoda’s father had released a cry as well, which had quickly been echoed by the rest of the warriors, rippling out along the wall and into the group of men behind them in the square. Hakoda had gripped his spear tighter before he had nodded to his best friend beside him and followed his father into the fray of battle.
The two sides had charged at each other, red and black at blue and brown, before they crashed together. Flames flew through the air and Hakoda could see the wall being manned by those from the square, fighting off any stragglers who had managed to squeeze through the Water Tribe line.
Hakoda had fought against those who didn’t have any fire power to their names, unarming them as best he could and kicking them into the snow. Sometimes, when he had to, he would shove his weapon through an opening in their armor and
push and push
until it struck the plate of the back of their armor. Red would fall onto the snow and Hakoda would have to look away and run away and throw himself into another fight to force the image of the fallen soldier from his mind.
Hakoda had been eighteen when he had killed a man for the first time.
All of Hakoda’s friends had killed at least one man that day, and one of them, Tirlek, hadn’t lived long enough to see the Fire Nation soldiers retreat.
Hakoda had watched, panting and relieved, as the last soldiers had returned to the ships and the looming shapes had finally faded into the snow once more. He hadn’t been able to relax until the snow wasn’t tinted by even the tiniest bit of soot.
The tribe had started by piling up the bodies of the Fire Nation soldiers outside of the village while others moved the bodies of the Water Tribe warriors who had fallen inside to be cleaned and wrapped for burial.
“
What are we doing with them, Dad?
” Hakoda had asked, standing beside his father, who had been sporting a new cut on his cheek.
“
The Fire Nation burn their dead,
” his father had replied as if that explained everything. “
It is how they honor them. Returning them to the flames
.”
“
So… what are we going to do?
”
“
We are going to burn them, Hakoda
,” his father had stated firmly. “
We may have been enemies when they were alive, but they were still fighters, and they died fighting. They have gained our respect and we shall honor them by disposing of them the same way that they would want to be if they were still alive.
”
Hakoda had stared off at the women now working near the soldiers’ bodies to make a fire that they could use to light the make-shift pyres and nodded in understanding.
The smoke had risen into the sky in such a tall, firm column that Hakoda had been worried that it would make more black snow.
The next evening, as the full moon had been rising in the distance, the Water Tribe dead had been cleaned, wrapped, and had been said farewell to by their families and friends. The tribe had all lined up and filed out, walking in silence across the expanse of snow to the bank that the Fire Nation had come up on just the day before. They had spread out, fanning into two lines before a few of the men had moved in, pulling sleds with the concealed bodies behind them.
Hakoda’s father, as the chief, had stepped out of line and moved to stand directly in front of everyone. He had given a speech about the nobel sacrifices of those who had died before moving to the first body and announcing the name of the dead man. The tribe had looked out at the moon, mumbling a prayer to Tui and La, and then two more men had stepped out of line and moved to each side of the body as Hakoda’s father had reached down and pulled the flap over the man’s face closed. The two tribesmen had lifted up the man, taken two steps over, and dropped him off of the edge of the ice, into the freezing-cold water below.
This cycle had continued on and on until the last rays of sunlight were gone from the sky and the moonbeams had made the snow shimmer with a silvery light.
Hakoda had been eighteen when he had attended his first mass funeral for a battle.
It was not his last.
Hakoda had been eleven when he had first seen Kya.
He had been training with his father and the other boys, learning how to hold a spear, when his eyes had wandered down the road and landed on a pretty girl standing in the marketplace, talking to someone that had to be her mother. He had stared at the girl for a long moment before making a face and turning around.
Ew, girls
…
Hakoda had been fourteen when he had spoken to Kya for the first time.
He had just passed his ice dodging trial the week before, and he was ready to do it again, even if his father had expressly declined his request. So, instead, Hakoda had gathered up a few of his closest friends and convinced them to go ice dodging with him again.
They had taken a wrong turn, rocketed the wrong way, smashed into the shore outside the village walls, and had all been thrown right out of the boat.
Hakoda had woken three days later to a girl scowling down at him.
“
You’re a total idiot, you know that?
” She had asked, moving away from him to grab up something from a nearby table.
“
What… What happened?
”
“
You and your idiot friends went ice dodging and crashed right near the village and almost died
,” she had said, turning back around with a wooden bowl in hand.
“
What’s that?
” Hakoda had asked, pointing at the strange brown contents.
“
Nothing that tastes good. Now, eat up!
”
Hakoda had scowled down at the mush in the bowl and shaken his head. “
No, no, I’m not eating that
.”
“
Oh, come on, it’s not
that
bad,
” she had said, but the glint in her eye had told him otherwise.
Eventually, after he had refused multiple more times, she had taken advantage of the weakened state he was in to pin him down with one arm and force the slop down his throat with the other.
Hakoda would never admit it, but the weird remedy had actually made him feel
better
.
Hakoda had been twenty when he had first eaten dinner alone with Kya.
He had also been twenty when he had kissed her for the first time.
Surprisingly, the two events did not coincide with one another.
Hakoda had eaten dinner with Kya inside of his own hut while his father had been out fishing and his mother had been visiting an old friend. Hakoda had known he was blushing that night, but Kay had blamed all of her own fluster on the fact that it was cold outside.
As for the whole kissing business, it had actually been an accident. Hakoda had been talking to Kya when Bato suddenly had popped up behind her and given her a push. She had flailed and fell right onto Hakoda who, not expecting it at all, had fallen to the ground. Kya’s lips had just happened to fall right onto his.
Granted
, Hakoda
may
have kept the kiss going a bit longer than necessary, but he hadn’t back then, and still didn't really care about the fact,
Hakoda had been twenty-two when he had asked Kya to marry him.
He had been twenty-three when she had finally said yes.
The village had continued to shrink over the years, so everyone knew everyone, making it so that a wedding of the chief’s son and the healer’s daughter had become
the
event to be at for the few hundred people.
It had been short, sweet, simple, and perfect.
Other than when the penguin had gotten in.
That
had been a disaster.
Hakoda had been twenty-five when he had suddenly been barged in on while sitting inside his home that he shared with his wife. He had looked up at the man in the doorway who had managed to just say, “
It’s your father
.”
Kya had told him later that night that she had done her best, but he was too far gone by the time she had gotten to him.
And, just like that, Hakoda had been made the Chief of the Southern Water Tribe.
Hakoda had been twenty-six when his son had been born. His wife had stared down into the intelligent blue eyes of the small boy before she had said, “
Sokka
.” Hakoda had nodded and been handed the child next. He had been too stunned to speak.
Just about a year later, his second child had been born. His daughter, who he looked into the eyes of for ten long minutes before deciding on ‘Katara’ as a name.
Hakoda had been twenty-eight when it had seemed like his life was perfect.
Hakoda had been thirty when his son had been arguing with his daughter and the freshly cleaned water from the pot in the fire had risen up and splashed right over the boy. Hakoda had felt a cold settle into his heart as he turned to his daughter, who was staring at him as if nothing had happened at all.
“
Kya
,” he had said as the woman walked in at that moment. “
Katara’s a waterbender
.”
The gasp of horror that had come from his wife’s lips had reaffirmed what he had already been feeling.
Being a waterbender was dangerous. Hundreds of them had been captured and killed by the raids, and if the Fire Nation caught wind of there being another waterbender in the Southern Water Tribe, they would come all the way down to the South Pole to wipe the little bender right off the face of the planet.
Hakoda had encouraged Katara to be as careful with her powers as possible, but she had been a
child
, and there was almost so much they could do.
Within a month, the entire village had known.
Hakoda had been thirty-three when his wife died.
Katara had explained to him what had happened through her tears, and he had gathered enough on his own anyway. They had been looking for the last waterbender, and Kya had lied and given herself up to save Katara.
Hakoda had forced his two children to sleep in his bed that night, his arms tucked around them, hugging them close on either side, refusing to release the last little bits of his wife that were left living in the world.
They had held a funeral for her, and dumped and empty shroud into the icy depths of the sea.
Hakoda had been thirty-eight when he had taken every last one of the men from the Southern Water Tribe, said goodbye to his children, and sailed off across the great horizon to the Earth Kingdom to join directly in the fight against the Fire Nation.
Saying goodbye had been hard, and he still remembered the way Sokka had stood on the shore, looking out at him with a painted face, watching as his father and his dreams sailed away before his very eyes. It had pained Hakoda to leave his son behind, but Sokka had to protect Katara and the village, and he hadn’t been ready yet.
Hakoda thought back to the invasion and almost laughed at how far his son had come.
Hakoda had been forty-one when he had seen Sokka again. He had been in a war meeting when the flap had suddenly opened. It was most definitely one of the happiest moments of his life, watching his son walk in, looking at Sokka for the first time in around three years. It had been absolutely amazing. He had been jealous when Bato had told him of his encounter with Sokka, Katara, and the
Avatar
. He had no reason to be jealous now. He had his son back.
And then, just as soon as he had come, Sokka had left with the Avatar, returning to the heart of the Earth Kingdom to supposedly save his sister. Well, Hakoda couldn’t argue with that.
When he had next seen his children, they had all been crying, Katara more accurately sobbing her eyes out. Sokka had been carrying the Avatar in his arms, and the poor kid had been burnt to a crisp.
Within the night, they had captured a ship and used it as their disguise.
Katara had barely spoken to him since they had captured the ship and gotten the Avatar (
Aang
) into a stable condition. When he had found out three weeks later that she had just been missing him, had just felt
lost
without him, his heart had broken again and he had gathered his teenage daughter in a hug like she was five again, five nad suddenly motherless.
The invasion had been perfect until it wasn’t.
He had never been more proud of his children, on one hand, watching Sokka lead the troops to victory when he couldn’t, and watching Katara slice through metal and soldiers with her waterbending like a knife through butter.
On the other hand, it had still fallen apart. Everything had, somehow, gone wrong. Well, Hakoda
knew
how. The Fire Lord had been expecting their arrival. Aang hadn’t found him in time, Azula (the Fire Nation princess) had distracted them, and, in the end, it just hadn’t been their day.
Hakoda had forced his children to leave him behind and watched as they flew off into the sky, away from him and his men as they were captured.
They had carted his men off to prisons all over the place, and Hakoda himself was placed in the Capital City Prison for a few weeks before being transferred to a place called the Boiling Rock.
Hakoda had heard whispers about it, whispers that said things about how it was the worst prison in the world, a giant hunk of metal surrounded by a boiling lake, the only way across being a gondola hanging over the steaming water.
Hakoda had agreed, once he had gotten there, that it was bad, but it wasn’t as bad as being in an active war zone. That changed people, traumatized them, ruined them. He had seen it in even the best of his soldiers. Tui and La, he had seen it in
himself
at times.
A few weeks into his imprisonment at the Boiling Rock, he had met a teenage girl only to find out that, lo-and-behold, she was Sokka’s kinda-girlfriend, and close friends with the Avatar’s whole little group (what was the last idea Sokka had thrown out for a name while they had been on the ships on the way to the invasion? The Gaang? Hakoda liked that one, it was a good one). Hakoda had started speaking mainly to the girl, Suki, and discovered that she was a well-traveled girl, leader of the Kyoshi Warriors, and she was only taken down by the Fire Nation Princess Azula herself and her two little friends.
Life was moving as normal in the Boiling Rock after a while. One day, the sky had turned red and Hakoda and Suki had sat outside in the yard that was noticeably more empty than usual (considering all firebenders were locked inside during the comet). Hakoda had watched the comet streaking across the sky when Suki had said, “
Do you think they’ll win?
”
Hakoda had nodded firmly. “
They will. They
have
to.
”
Nothing had changed after the comet had ended. Firebenders were allowed into the yard again and things went back to normal.
Over the next two days, there was no news of anything about the war. NOt about victory or defeat, and it had Hakoda on the edge of his seat.
Then, one day, a guard appeared at his cell door. He sat up and glared at her as she strolled in without a care in the world.
“Come on, bub,” she said, placing a hand on her hip. “You’re wanted in a meeting room.”
Hakoda furrowed his eyes and stood up. The guard handcuffed him behind his back and led him through the prison. He lost track of the turns after a while, unfortunately.
Finally, they reached a door. The guard moved him aside for a moment to unlock it and push it open before shoving him inside roughly. His eyes widened as his gaze met Suki’s. He was locked in beside her, in a chair at the table. The guard stared at them for a moment before leaving the room, closing the door behind her.
They sat in silence for a few long minutes before the door opened again. Hakoda was prepared for anything, and, honestly, for some reason, he was expecting the Fire Lord or some member of the government or royal family.
Hakoda had seen portraits of the Fire Lord before. They had been everywhere on the ship that they had captured, and it was impossible to not come across one in the aftermath of a battle.
The Fire Lord was a grown man, maybe around Hakoda’s age, and he was intimidating and strong and
powerful
. No one could deny that.
Suki had described the Fire Nation Princess with enough accuracy to ensure Hakoda that she envisioned fighting her every night when she fell asleep.
The figure that came in was neither.
Well, technically, it was two figures that emerged through the doorway. One was a young woman with her hair tied back, traditional Fire Nation clothes on, and the other was a
teenager
, a
boy
who was being pushed in the wheelchair by the woman. The woman positioned the boy in front of them, released the handles, gave a small bow, and backed out of the room.
The boy stumbled through his introduction, and Hakoda took the time to observe him. He seemed thin, but Hakoda couldn’t really tell with all the fabric the clothes draped over him. They seemed to be chosen especially to make sure that no one could really tell how thick they were.
The boy’s face was gaunt, his hair tied up messily, his eyes a bit sunken in, and, of course, there was a giant burn scar across his face. Training accident, maybe? A nasty training accident, sure, but a boy had cut off his own hand back at the Southern Water Tribe when Hakoda was younger, so it was definitely possible.
Then, the boy said something that snapped all of Hakoda’s attention right to him. “
So, um, I’m Zuko. Er, Fire Lord Zuko. Yeah. I’m the… I’m the Fire Lord… My name is Zuko.”
This
was the Fire Lord? This scrawny, awkward teenager. He couldn’t be much older than Sokka was.
Also, yeah, Fire Lord?
Definitely
a training accident.
Then the teenage Fire Lord went on to explain that his father, Fire Lord Ozai, had tried to burn down the Earth Kingdom with the power of Sozin’s Comet, but Aang and the others had stopped them, and they had both been captured.
Then
, the boy explained that he wanted to stop the war.
Without a Fire Nation victory.
The world was officially mad.
The boy reached forward his hand but neither Hakoda nor Suki reached out to take it. As he was pulling it back, Suki suddenly grabbed it and introduced them. The moment her hand grabbed the boy’s, he had
flinched
. Like, full-on
flinched
. Okay, there was
definitely
something wrong with this boy.
Then, the boy wanted to hear their stories. Their
stories
. Hakoda narrowed his eyes and resisted shaking Suki to tell her to stop. She was playing right into enemy hands as she talked about her journey to this point.
When the boy turned to him hopefully, Hakoda narrowed his eyes even more, turning his gaze into a glare as he growled, “I’m not telling you anything,
Fire Lord.
”
The boy had left for a moment before returning and telling Suki and Hakoda that he was taking them to the capital city for proper medical treatment.
Hakoda’s mind immediately flicked to ‘political prisoners’, and he asked the Fire Lord’s plan. The boy looked
confused
, as if he hadn’t generated a lie beforehand, before he said that he guessed he would just let them go.
Out of all of the answers he had expected, that was not one of them.
They had been guided out of the prison, which was a miracle in-and-of-itself, and Hakoda sent a thank you to the spirits as they stepped off of the gondola.
They moved through the giant airship and eventually ended up in a sitting area where Suki suddenly had a face-off with two girls. It just so happened that the two girls who had helped the princess imprison Suki were two of the new Fire Lord’s friends. Wasn’t that just
wonderful
.
The Fire Lord seemed a bit out of it when his eyes met Hakoda’s. They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment before the Fire Lord suddenly looked away frantically, his gaze fast and flitting over things that he didn’t seem to be seeing.
The boy’s breathing picked up a bit and Hakoda watched as his eyes widened and he started to shake slightly, his knuckles grasping the handles of the wheelchair he was in turning white.
The teenage girls in the room stopped arguing and the Fire Lord’s two friends were staring at him with a mixture of shock and fear. So
they
didn’t know what was going on, either. Interesting…
The boy’s chest was moving up-and-down faster and faster, and he was trembling at this point. Suddenly, Hakoda was pushed aside as a large man who he recognized as one of the Fire Lord’s guards entered the room and knelt by the boy’s side. He was speaking in low and quick words, but they didn’t seem to be helping.
The man turned and called over his shoulder, “
Ming! Lee! Get in here!
”
Two more guards appeared and stared at their leader in shock for a moment before moving to help him.
Hakoda looked into the Fire Lord’s eyes from where he stood off to the side, frozen. The boy’s good amber eye was wide with terror, and completely glazed over, as if he was stuck somewhere completely different. He was making tiny whimpering sounds that were actually pretty sad to listen to, honestly. His mouth started to form the word “no” over and over again.
Hakoda clenched his fists as suddenly the guards were carting the Fire Lord out of the room, tears streaming down his pale face.
When they were gone, all was still for a moment before one of the girls, the dark and scary one, exploded at him. “What did you do to him?”
Her friend appeared beside her and, to be honest, her glare was more terrifying to see than the other’s was.
“I didn’t do anything,” Hakoda managed to say, mostly too caught up in his thoughts to say anything more.
The two girls glared at him for a moment longer before the dark one stormed out of the room, her friend who seemed like she belonged in the pink outfit she was wearing following along quickly.
Hakoda met Suki’s gaze and the girl gave him a questioning look, but he didn’t answer. He was too busy thinking about where he had seen that glazed look in the boy’s eyes before. It reminded him heavily of warriors that he knew, ones that came off of the battlefield and then sometimes experienced something that made them think that they were right back there again.
But that was ridiculous, because those men were Water Tribe warriors, fighting for freedom, and this boy was a pampered prince who’d had a training accident when he was younger.
Still, though, it was not was he was expecting, and Hakoda felt like there was something more genuine in this boy than anything any other Fire Lord he had ever heard of had shown.
Hakoda stared off in the direction the boy had just been carted off in, the empty doorway, and made a vow in himself to maybe try to give this boy a small chance. Just the one. But a chance.
Cause even if that whole show just now was a big fake, then he at least deserved it for top-notch acting skills.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
"Target has moved in, he's been inside for a couple of minutes now, stand by at ready for orders."
The OSC strike team had been laying in wait for the past few days, rotating out in shifts, listening for some kind of signal from the tech crew watching Levi's house. Commander Smith insisted a team be there twenty-four seven, ready to take into custody anyone who tried to enter by force. After a whole lot of nothing, they were all starting to get antsy and bored. It would not be the first time that Smith had set them up to watch some Omega's house for weeks only to finally decide nothing was going to come of it and call the team off. There was little in life more frustrating that gearing up in body armor and sitting in the back of a van with seven other Alphas and Betas, sweating in spite of the air conditioning, breathing stale air. So when their resident communications officer perked up, the order to stand by ready given, they could scarcely believe it.
Cards fell forgotten to the floor, handheld gaming systems clattering on metal, rifles loaded with nonlethal rounds taken from racks overhead. A few of the soldiers pulled out handguns instead, better at close range than some of the long weapons, while a couple were bare handed. Ready to try and take down their opponent while the others neutralized him with tazers and rubber bullets. They rolled out their arms, shook the ache from their muscles, pulled their face masks into place. Crouched next to the back exit, adrenaline starting to flow.
"Single target, armed, dynamic unknown. Assume Alpha. Both teams move in on my mark." They could hear the countdown through the earpiece, but the officer held up his hand anyway, three fingers in the air. Folding in one by one, until he was clenching a fist. "Three, two, one. Go, go go!"
Two strike teams was overkill for a single person, but they had not been sure how many targets might show up, and wanted to be safe rather than sorry. They leapt from the back of their vans, situated on opposite sides of the house. One parked in an empty garage, the other nestled in a tree line down the road. They were inside the house in less than a minute, fast and agile.
The other Alpha watched from the woods behind Levi's house, high up in a tree to gain the best vantage point. She'd seen one of the vans roll up, and it did not take a very keen eye to be able to tell it was the OSC. Not when you knew what to look for, as she did. But they needed to get into that house either way, even as anxiety swelled through her, so she'd suggested they split up just in case. One on watch, one kicking the door, and as a female Alpha her male counterpart had insisted he be the one on the ground, despite the fact that she could take him in a fight with one hand tied behind her back. Their strike team descended on her companion, even as the other Alpha rattled off an address through the phone at her ear, and she burned the numbers into her memory before relaying the information to him.
"Marlo, you've got company. A lot of them. You're not gonna be able to fight your way out of this one. You gonna let them take you?" It was a rhetorical question. They'd been raised by Kenny and his crew ever since they were children, orphaned on the street. She realized later that if she'd presented as Omega, her life would've been much different. Sold off to a harem, or whored off to victorious Alpha fighters as a war prize. But Omegas were
weak,
and that was their place in the scheme of things. To serve, to submit, to obey. It had been beaten into at a young age, but even before that the first thing they learned was not how to read or write.
It was
never surrender.
And always go down fighting.
"You got that address?" Hitch nodded, then realized he could not see her. Answered instead, voice not betraying the anguish she felt. It had been her idea for one of them to wait in the trees, and she should have known he would insist it be her. If she'd kept her mouth shut, they could have had one last battle, standing back to back against the world. Marlo had been her companion ever since they presented together. Not a mate, no, but a brother in arms. They'd fought side by side year after year, snatching up Alphas for Kenny's pits and eluding the OSC. Now... well..
There was no eluding this.
"I got it. I'll take care of things." She could hear the sneer on his face when he spoke, and even in her grief, Hitch couldn't help but smile.
"Tell Kenny I'll see him in hell."
There was a loud crunching sound before the call disconnecting, Marlo destroying his phone no doubt. If the OSC got into it, they would be able to track her down through the call he'd just made. There was no point in listening to the fight going on inside the house. Only one end left now, and she didn't want to hear it. She could think about it later, once her mission was accomplished. Marlo had died for this, and she would not let it be in vain. Hitch crept away into the darkness, making her way to the car they had stashed a few miles away. The Alphas address was easy to find with her phone, tapping a few keys. She would not rush into that place as they had before, thoughtless and impatient.
It only took a few hours of watching 'Eren Jaeger's' house to realize there were OSC here, too. She cursed, muttering profanities as the same car patrolled, parked, sat for awhile. Circled the block, parking in a different spot, oblivious to her presence in the backyard of a nearby home. She was not equipped to deal with another OSC team, not by herself.
And that was before she dared to walk down the sidewalk, disguised as a jogger, earphones in her ears and feet eating up the pavement. Trying to smell the people inside, see if she could tell how many there were. If it was only two, just the Alpha and an Omega, it would not be so bad. She could wait until they went somewhere, see if any OSC tailed them, take care of the Alpha and throw the Omega in her trunk. She was strong, and there were very few enemies she could not take down.
Then she caught the Alphas scent, from farther away than should be possible, and felt her guts run cold.
Oh, fuck.
Hitch suddenly wanted to run away, wanted to jump in her car and drive. Far, and fast, until this Alphas scent was nowhere to be found. It was the most overwhelming thing she had ever smelled, and for Hitch, that was saying something. She'd seen Alphas rip their way through a dozen opponents in the pits, covered in blood and scent, dominant and terrifying.
It was nothing compared to what she scented now. This Alpha was a fucking monster, and her ego was nowhere near large enough to try and convince her she stood a chance against him. Not only that, but there were traces of another smell mingling with the Alphas. Sweeter, less sharp, and it took only a few seconds for Hitch to realize with horror what it was.
Bonded.
The Omega they were after had bonded this beast of an Alpha. Recently, too. She carefully made her way back to her hiding place, scowling and furious.
A freshly bonded Omega in the care of an Alpha more powerful than any she'd ever come across. She'd have more luck breaking into OSC headquarters by herself and taking out its Commander bare handed than snatching an Omega from that house.
She could wait. Hitch could call Kenny, and have him send another team of Alphas. More than two, because they would definitely need them. But even as the thought crossed her mind, it tasted bitter in Hitch's mouth.
Defeat. Calling in more Alphas was
defeat,
and not just for her, but for Marlo, too. If she could not do this herself, then Marlo
had
died for nothing. Still, Hitch could not beat a monster like that. Maybe if she had a tranquilizer, but even the normal shots would probably not do the trick for this Alpha, and she hadn't brought any with her anyway. Had not thought she would need them just to get her hands on an Omega.
A conversation flitted through her mind, Kenny on the phone with someone in Shiganshina, one of his cohorts. A doctor, who supplied him with drugs to knock out especially powerful Alphas they wanted for the pits, currently engrossed in research at an underground lab here. Hitch was dialing before she could take a breath, and Kenny answered almost immediately.
"You have the Omega?"
"No. We lost Marlo. I found the Omega, but he's with an Alpha I'm no match for. I need some tranquilizers, some powerful ones. Your doctor friend still in Shiganshina? I could use his help. Is he willing to get his hands a little dirty?" Hitch could
feel
Kenny smiling, and a chill ran down her spine.
"He certainly is."
...........................................................................
Levi had not meant to get drunk, really. Buzzed at the very least, mind starting to blur at the edges a bit. But there were so many of Eren's friends at Armin's, and even if he'd already met most of them, they all wanted to
talk.
Not only that, but even when they were not asking the pair questions they were staring. Grinning like idiots at Eren and Levi, whispering to one another, looking far too pleased with themselves. Armin and Mikasa had both been there when they'd arrived, Eren and Levi depositing themselves on the couch together. Levi sat on the side, Eren pressing in next to him closer than necessary, the clear staking of a claim. As though there was some Alpha there who would be idiotic enough to try and take Levi from him. It was ridiculous, and stupid.
It made Levi warm inside in places that were just now becoming familiar, and he fought a smile from his lips and blush from his cheeks. He was
wanted,
and
protected,
and this Alpha would bare his teeth and raise his fists if someone even looked at him wrong. The Omega wanted to hate it, wanted to scowl. Wanted to be annoyed, to feel insulted at the implication that he could not look after himself.
All he could do was keep fighting the smile that wanted to form on his face, euphoric and giddy and
fuck,
he was so stupid.
Everyone filtered in one by one after them, Jean and Reiner showing up first, the former still sporting a shiner that made Levi grin in spite of himself. The Beta who worked the desk at the dojo arrived next, Sasha, along with another Beta who Levi had seen several times but never officially met. Connie shook his hand as they were introduced, eliciting a snarl from Eren than had the Beta giggling. He turned to Levi with a sympathetic smile, sitting down on the other couch as Sasha collapsed next to him with a plate full of food.
"Oh God, can't even shake your hand. It's just as bad when you're not fighting anyone I guess." Levi smirked in answer.
"It's constant, really." Eren was indignant, coming to his own defense.
"Hey! It's not
constant.
And you're one to talk, you almost ate Armin the other day!" Levi shot him a vicious look, but Armin entered the room then, nodding in agreement.
"It's true. He almost ripped my throat out."
"Don't forget Historia!" Ymir and Historia had come in the front door and made their way down the hall, catching the last bits of conversation.
"Yeah, you did sort of attack me." Levi glanced between the two Omegas, glaring, taking a generous drink of his beer.
"So much for Omegan solidarity. Fuck both you guys."
Everyone just laughed, and then Levi began working on his booze in earnest. It was... too comfortable there, too relaxed. Levi felt out of place with his harsh words and angry demeanor, wondering why he still felt the need to be so defensive. He was with his
mate,
meeting Eren's friends. If they couldn't stand Levi, it was going to make Eren's entire life miserable. His Omega and his friends constantly at odds, never quite in sync as they should be, and Levi cringed at the thought of being a source of contention. He did not want these people to resent him for taking their friend away, for being difficult and unsociable and just generally an asshole. So if Levi had to down a few beers to loosen up?
It was a small price to pay for Eren's happiness, and hell, it had been a long time since he drank more than a couple of drinks at a time anyway.
More of Eren's buddies arrived, a giant of a Beta named Bertholdt and some people from the dojo that Levi had seen in passing. Each time someone shook Levi's hand or smiled a little too warmly, Eren snarled and bared his teeth. No one looked bothered by it, so used to submitting to the Alpha that they did it automatically. The brunet seemed almost embarrassed by it, but was still unable to reign in his aggression. Just put an arm around Levi, tugging him in closer, idly scent marking the Omega's hair as he chatted with Jean. It was an effort not to shudder, that rich scent washing over Levi in waves. Soon there were too many people to really keep track of, but it did not matter. He felt much more at ease, talking to Armin while Eren and Jean bickered about one thing after the other. The actual fights had not yet started playing out on the screen yet, and everyone milled around idly, eating and drinking. Sasha and Connie wandered in and out, going for more smoke breaks than was probably healthy, but Levi wasn't their mother. He did wonder how they could stand the stench, because even from so far away it had his nose wrinkling. Then again they were Betas, their noses less keen.
Eren was more affectionate than usual, probably because of all the people there, though there were no unfamiliar Alphas. Just his sister and Jean, along with Ymir and Reiner. Still, Eren's free hand was always on Levi somehow, toying with his hair, resting on his thigh. He nuzzled the Omega's locks and whispered in his ear, pressing soft kisses to his cheek from time to time. Levi tried not to wince underneath the attention, unused to someone lavishing touch on him in public that way. Still he blushed, and scowled, glaring at Eren when he ruffled his hair or pulled the Omega in to bring their mouths together briefly. There were people everywhere, ooo-ing and aww-ing at them whenever they caught the Alpha cuddling against his mate. Levi was not ashamed to be tied to Eren. Who would be? He was fucking beautiful, and strong, yet still the gentlest Alpha Levi had ever met. Levi was proud to be his mate, even if he wasn't ready to admit it, to himself or anyone else.
He just didn't like being the center of everyone's attention. It made him twitchy, all those eyes on him. The feeling of being watched intensified, and he glanced around the room until he found the source. A male Omega he'd never met was staring openly, nursing a beer and standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen. Blonde and lean, eyes glittering as he looked at Levi and Eren. Predatory, and full of mischief. There was only one other Omega who was supposed to be in attendance that night, and Levi realized all at once that this had to be Thomas. The Omega grinned at him as though reading his mind before backing away into the kitchen, and Levi was on his feet in an instant. He muttered something to Eren about getting another beer and vanished before the Alpha could respond.
When he caught sight of the Omega, the blonde was leaning against the counter, still smirking. Levi crossed his arms, sizing him up automatically as though he were about to face him in the ring.
Nothing.
This Omega was nothing, as enemies went. There was no awareness to him, eyes not keen enough, limbs weak, frame loose. Even in his drunken state, Levi could have him on the ground in an instant.
But not all battles were physical, and those eyes might not been sharp enough to beat Levi in a fight, but they seemed to bore into him. Down through his chest, into his guts. His arms looked weak, but his skin was smooth and unscarred, golden hair falling across his face. He was not strong, but he was pretty, in a fragile sort of way. Someone an Alpha would fall all over themselves to protect, and Levi found himself scowling as he spoke.
"I don't believe we've been introduced." The Omega smiled, and it was more feral than it had any right to be coming from the blonde's helpless form.
"From the way you're looking at me, I think my reputation might precede me, unfortunately. I'm Thomas. It's nice to meet you." Levi cocked his head to the side, instinctively exposing his mating marks.
Look at my Alpha's teeth, and his bond, and the marks from his mouth. See how he wants me.
"Is it now?" Thomas laughed, throwing his head back, and it sounded
bright.
Vibrant, and confident, and Levi
hated
this kid suddenly, even more than before.
"I take it you would be Levi?"
"Levi, yes. I'm Eren's
mate.
" The blonde Omega smiled, rubbing the tip of his beer bottle back and forth across his mouth.
"I can see that. Scent it, too. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't jealous. How'd you manage to lure him in? I could use some pointers." Levi growled low, taking a step forward. Aggression rolling off him in waves, scent riling into the air. Fierce, and territorial. A challenge as undeniable as any Alpha's, and just as serious.
"Eren's mine. He's got a mate now. If he wanted you, he would've had you already." Thomas leaned forward, throwing a glance towards the living room, gaze lingering on Eren, and Levi found himself outright snarling then. He did not even want this Omega
looking
at his Alpha. Didn't want him in the same room, in the same house, breathing the same air. His hands fell from his chest, clenching at his sides, eager to fist and flex. Levi's body wanted to fall into a fighting stance, wanted to tackle this Omega to the ground and force him to submit. But that would not be defeat, not for an Omega like this. One like Armin, who did not fight with his strength but with his wiles. It would be a victory, an acknowledgement that Levi saw him as a threat. That he was insecure in in the bond he shared with Eren.
Afraid to lose his Alpha to another Omega. Afraid Eren would cast him aside, and choose someone else. Someone happy and carefree. Someone that was all smiles and laughter, bright eyes and soft touches.
Someone who was so different from Levi, the Omega could taste blood in his mouth, and only then did he realize he was biting his tongue to keep from tearing out this boy's throat with his teeth. This boy who was still fucking grinning, looking like he was enjoying himself.
"He's got
a
mate. But an Alpha like that could handle more than one, don't you think?" Thomas leaned back then, face close to Levi's, eyes dancing. "We could share." Levi wrenched his lids shut for a moment, fighting his instincts. Instincts that told him this Omega would not be a threat if he was bleeding out on the floor, that fucking smirk melted away into nothingness. When he pried his eyes open again they felt strange for a second, and Thomas looked at him with a furrowed brow as light flashed out between them.
Light?
But Levi could not be worried about that. Not with a rival in front of him, looking as though he'd already won something.
Levi wanted to wipe that look from Thomas's face with his fists.
"He doesn't need more than one, and I don't share." The tightness in his eyes faded, and then Thomas was looking smug again, and he whispered in Levi's ear.
"Maybe you don't share, but you also look like your ready to scratch your skin off every time he touches you. How long do you think he'll be happy with a mate who simply tolerates his affection, rather than enjoys it? I'm not going to try and take your mate from you, Omega. But once he tires of being
tolerated
instead of
mated,
I will still be here." Thomas pulled back to meet Levi's gaze, still talking too low for anyone else to hear. "Eager, and enthusiastic, and
willing.
And those marks you have will look so damn good on me, I can hardly wait. Until then,
little Omega.
"
Levi clenched his teeth, listening absently as Thomas eased around him left the kitchen, muttering goodbyes to everyone as he apologized for leaving early. Something about work, Levi didn't really pay attention. He stood there for a long time, lost in thoughts that were red and furious.
Mine. Eren's MINE.
He was, it was true. They had the marks to prove it, their scents tied together, the Alpha's teeth etched into Levi's skin.
How long do you think he'll be happy with a mate who simply tolerates his affection....?
The Omega could not deny, that was what it looked like. That Levi simply tolerated Eren's touches, his kisses, his attention. As though he indulged the Alpha, and did not truly enjoy those things himself. But Levi didn't know how to
do this,
how to be close with someone, how to give in. How to let Eren love him without feeling self conscious, especially with all those eyes on them.
The Alpha deserved better than Levi. Someone who would melt under his hands, and his lips, no matter who was around. Someone who-
Suddenly there were arms wrapping around Levi's waist from behind, a face nuzzling into his throat, and the Omega knew who it was in an instant. By scent, and the feel of Eren's skin, and the way Levi's bonding marks heated up at the slightest touch.
Alpha. Mine.
"Are you okay? I saw Thomas leaving, and you were in here with him awhile. I was curious, but I didn't want to... intrude, or something. I wanted to let you... I don't know, handle it yourself." Levi leaned into Eren, letting his head fall back on the Alpha's shoulder and breathing him in. The smell of his Alpha reached inside, calming his racing heart, slowing the blood flowing too fast through his veins. Making him relax, easing the tension from Levi's muscles. All those doubts fell away, and he turned around in Eren's arms, standing on his toes to take the Alpha's mouth.
Eren's lips were hot on the Omega's, those big hands holding Levi tight against him as their tongue's writhed together. No hesitation, no fears, just
Alpha
and
Omega
and all Levi could think was
'Yes, mine, just mine.'
Maybe Eren deserved better than him, but people didn't always get what they deserved. This Alpha was stuck with Levi now, and if he had to step outside of his comfort zone to let Eren know how much he cared, the Omega would do it.
He would walk through fire. Crawl through glass. Shed his blood, his sweat, his tears.
He would kiss this Alpha for all he was worth, and not care who was watching.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Zhongli would be lying if he said he hadn’t been looking forward to his “date” all week.
Work wasn’t stressful and quite lenient, well, relative to how it usually was, at least. He was starting to enjoy hanging his clothes up instead of putting them in the dryer since he found the act calming, and his week overall wasn’t as bad as others. Childe told him to make something for himself for dinner before they went out since they were just getting desert, so he even found the time to make himself a rather good stir fry with the ingredients he had lying around.
He picked out a burgundy dress shirt and brown slacks with some dress shoes he kept away for special occasions the night before, too excited to wait for the day of to select his outfit. He wondered if it was normal to anticipate sugar dates to this extent, but considering all of the perks that he had received, he allowed himself to be excited as long as he was contributing equally to the arrangement.
Zhongli checked his phone, sitting down in the lone chair in his kitchen, and saw a new message from Childe, Diluc, and Kaeya. He unlocked it, pulled up Childe’s chat first, and read what was sent.
6:02 pm, Today
CHILDE: ill be there in an hour :D were going somewhere p nice so dress up!!! :P
Zhongli felt his heart leap into his throat and push all the air out of his lungs as panic rose in his gut. Something nice? He didn’t think he owned anything nice enough for what Childe must consider worth dressing up for. If the Kiosk and Pavillion weren’t fancy enough for him to make such a request, he couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around where Childe may have made reservations.
YOU: What must I wear? How nice is the place we are going to?
Zhongli stared down at his phone, waiting for a reply, and when he didn’t get one he opened up Diluc’s message while he waited.
5:57 pm, Today
DILUC RAGNVINDR: Remember to stay safe. Call me if you need to be picked up. I would not mind escorting you back home if you need it.
Zhongli smiled to himself as he typed his response. It was very much like Diluc to be so caring towards him and Zhongli never failed to appreciate all of his kind gestures.
YOU: Thank you very much for the offer. I appreciate the gesture and will keep your offer in mind tonight. It means a lot to me to know that I am in your thoughts.
He opened Kaeya’s messages next.
1:15 am, Today
KAEYA ALBERICH: *attached an image* Diluc and I went shopping and I helped him pick out a suit for our date tonight :) Look at how cute he is look at him look.
-
5:49 pm, Today
KAEYA ALBERICH: Secure the bag and shake that ass tonight bitch.
Zhongli furrowed his eyebrows as he typed back.
YOU: What does that mean? I apologize for not understanding your message, Kaeya. Is this in regards to my date with Childe? Also, please maintain a healthy sleep schedule, both you and Diluc. Tell him I said hello if you are together again tonight and that his new outfit is lovely.
Kaeya’s contact immediately began to blink and Zhongli wished Childe was replying that quickly.
KAEYA ALBERICH: It means get the cash and shake it real fast. Diluc says thank you btw
*YOU reacted with a thumbs-up*
Zhongli assumed that was a complete conversation. Before he put his phone up, he got a notification that Childe texted him back and Zhongli’s chest fluttered over itself as he opened it.
CHILDE: theres a dress code, but its just the usual, like wear formal stuff with a jacket and tie. u should be fine with whatever :)) ill see u soon!!!!
Zhongli felt more panic swell in his stomach. Dress code?
Dress code?!
He didn’t even know restaurants could have one! He hardly thought the outfit he laid out would be suitable if there was a
dress code,
but he didn’t own much…
He could wear what Childe bought him, right?
Zhongli found himself walking back to his closet, opening it, and staring at the shirt and pants he hung up and left untouched. He hesitated taking it out and to lay it on his bed as if such a simple action would somehow ruin it.
He liked the outfit so much he wanted to just stare at it and never wear it. It was almost as bad as the necklace Childe bought him. But, he didn’t feel like ironing anything else out, especially when Childe would arrive so soon…
Zhongli pulled the shirt he was wearing over his head and took the other one off its hanger so he wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. He quickly fastened all the buttons, kicked his slacks off to put the others on, then pulled the jacket on. He then grabbed the tie loosely wrapped around the hanger, slid it around his neck, and tied it as he walked to the bathroom.
He pulled his hair out of its ponytail to brush through it before fastening it again, then he paused, staring at himself in the mirror. He secured the tie a little tighter, smoothed out his jacket, then pulled his hair loose again. Childe said it looked better when pulled up into a bun, so maybe…
He hadn’t used hair gel in years, but now he was grabbing it from under the sink and taking his gloves off to pour product on his fingers. He slicked his hair back into the neatest bun he could manage before running his fingers through his bangs to make them look smoother, then he looked at himself again.
He looked nice. He liked being able to think that to himself with no hesitation as if it was a simple fact.
But it was missing something.
Zhongli walked to his dresser to take the cor lapis necklace waiting patiently on the top to put around his neck and tuck the chain under his collar. He then went to his drawer, pulled out the matching socks and shoes, and pulled them on. He stood up, going back to the kitchen to grab his phone, then caught himself in the full mirror hanging on his bedroom door.
He looked out of place in his apartment dressed up like this. Childe was right, these clothes felt so natural on him and melted into his aesthetic so well it felt like they were made for him. He stood up straight, admired the complete look, and smiled.
It’d been a while since he’d seen himself genuinely smile like this while looking at his reflection. He could imagine himself now going through his new phone in his new outfit in a restaurant that had a dress code with Childe, making idle conversation and eating whatever dessert he had planned.
Oh, the gloves. He forgot the gloves.
He ran to the bathroom to grab them and put them on before making his way to the kitchen again to grab his keys and phone. He checked his messages and opened Childe’s chat again when he saw there was a new text from him.
CHILDE: im outside but no rush!! im listening to katy perry while I still can lol
Childe was right on time. Zhongli walked out the door after checking himself for everything once more, locking it behind him and checking the knob before going to walk down the stairs to the lot and search for Childe’s car. Once he was there, standing outside and breathing in the night air in his
new
outfit holding his
new
phone, he quickly found his car parked nearby, and Childe found him too, given how he stepped out of it with a wide grin on his face.
Zhongli took in a small breath when he saw him. Childe’s hair was slicked back, showing off his beaming face and the dangling red diamond earring shining in his pierced ear. He wore a wolf-grey dress shirt with a crimson tie, a dark grey jacket, and slacks over black dress shoes. On the pocket of his suit jacket, Childe was sporting a dark red diamond pin that glistened in the dim light. Zhongli had never seen him dress so formally, so the sight caught him off guard and had him stumbling over his words.
He looked
amazing
when he dressed up. Nothing short of amazing. It was suddenly
very
hot outside and Zhongli’s tie was quite tight.
“Holy
shit,
look at you!” Childe beamed. “You’re making me feel bad for not taking you to dinner when you look that good!
Damn,
Zhongli!”
Zhongli averted his gaze and tried to think of something to say as he walked to the car. “You look amazing!” Childe continued. “L-Like, wow, have I ever seen you with your hair like that? It looks really good! I-
w-wow.
You look
really
good.”
“T-Thank you,” Zhongli mumbled, his heart beating in his ears as he got into Childe’s car through the door opened for him. Childe closed it for him before he could, moving around to get into the driver’s side to hop in.
Zhongli really had never seen Childe dressed so nice. It was all shirts unbuttoned and lazily worn slacks or shorts, so it was almost as if he was a different person. Zhongli found himself enchanted and unable to stop starring as Childe pulled up their playlist with a hum and electric guitars began to screech through the speakers.
He liked Childe with his bangs pushed back. He was able to count the freckles dancing across his cheeks, nose, and forehead this way and see his eyes better. They were hidden behind red and long eyelashes, but even in the dark light of the car, they were a striking shade of blue. There weren’t many specks of light in those eyes, but that only made them deeper, like an ocean on a cloudy day with uncharted depths-
“You ready to go, Zhongli?”
“I am,” he nodded, pulled out of his daze.
“I promise I’ll take you to dinner sometime,” Childe nearly whined. “You look so good! I feel bad. I promise I’ll make it up to you!”
“I am quite content being with you no matter what we do,” Zhongli smiled as they drove off, and Childe’s face was suddenly a lot redder than it was before. “Thank-“
“I-I told you not to thank me, s-so don’t mention it!” Childe exclaimed in a stumble, and Zhongli couldn’t help but laugh at his sudden outburst. “What?”
“You’re funny.”
Childe visibly gripped the wheel a little tighter and shook his head that was now a burning shade of red that almost matched his earring. “W-Whatever,” Childe stuttered while Zhongli continued to smile and watch the lights pass by from the passenger seat.
___
Childe drove through Chihu Rock while Zhongli contently sat in the passenger seat humming along to the music roaring through the speakers. They went into a parking lot surrounded by flickering street lamps in front of a small, sleek building sitting proudly among the other shops and restaurants nearby. Zhongli stared at the front of the building then to the people standing at the entrance and squinted as Childe turned off the car then unbuckled his seat belt. There was a woman standing out front he swore looked familiar, then his stomach flipped.
“What are you looking at?” Childe asked as he stepped out of the car.
“I recognize that woman.”
“Oh, are you two friends?”
Zhongli followed Childe’s lead and walked with him. “I recognize this as the Yangshang Teahouse, and I most certainly recognize the hostess. I passed by here on my walks a few times and she has been quite rude. I was barely within the vicinity and she threatened to call security on me.”
Childe let out a hearty laugh at that. “This is a pretty exclusive place,” he giggled. “What do you think? I thought I’d surprise you since this looks like it’d be your thing.”
“Wait, we’re having our date
here?!”
Childe laughed again as they walked to the front before he nodded at the hostess with a smile. “Hello!” He greeted with a grin. “How’s your night been-”
“Do you have reservations or not?” The hostess snapped. “I won’t hesitate to call security on you.”
“We do under the name Tartaglia.”
The hostess, Chuyi said the name card clipped on her dress, tapped away on the screen in front of her before giving them both a singular nod. “Follow me, Mr. Tartaglia.”
Chuyi walked through the door without bothering to hold it open for them, so Childe took it before it could swing closed with a smile towards Zhongli.
“After you.”
Zhongli felt his face heat as he walked through the door. “Thank you,” he said once he stepped inside. He looked up and let out a small breath as he and Childe followed the hostess.
Warm, soft lights illuminated deep grey walls, sleek and modern, adorned by golden curtains. The cushioned and low seats were a light shade of brown not unsimilar to tree bark with white pillows that looked so soft Zhongli had to use self-control to not grab and smash them into his face. A wall of various decorative china displayed teapots, cups, and vases, all intricately crafted with such attention to detail Zhongli was sure he could spend a lifetime looking at each one. People sat and made idle chatter quieted by the padded ceiling, all dressed to the nines and smiling softly as they drank tea and ate delicate desserts that made Zhongli’s mouth water just by looking at them.
Dark red wooden doors surrounded by green plants led them out of the main room and into a separate one, not unlike the rest of the decor but with a single table and two chairs Zhongli was sure he could sink in. Chuyi nodded down at the chairs then Childe sat down in one while Zhongli followed his lead to the other.
“Feel free to look at our nightly specials,” Chuyi said. “A server will be back momentarily. Enjoy your stay.”
The hostess left with that, gently closing the door behind her, and Childe flashed Zhongli a wide grin. “What do you think would be good?” Childe asked. “I’m not much of a tea drinker.”
“I will have to see their selection and make a decision from there. I’ve always wanted to go here. What a treat. Thank you very much for taking me.”
“I knew this would be your thing!” Childe beamed. “I guess you’ve always wanted to go because of the tea?”
“Well… In all honesty, I just wanted to because of how tight the security looks.”
Childe laughed loudly, lightly hitting his knee with a slap of his hand and hunching over through cackles. “I wasn’t expecting that!” Childe laughed. “I’ve actually never been. I’m really glad that you’re cool with doing this instead of dinner and champagne. I’m sorry for not being able to take you to that, by the way. My schedule this week has been an absolute nightmare.”
“That’s nothing worth apologizing for. I am quite happy simply to be here with you.” Childe’s nose brushed with color at those words and Zhongli cleared his throat. “And, of course, I’m glad to be able to fulfill my part of the contract.”
“The decor looks really pretty,” Childe hummed. “I’m going to take a lot of pictures!”
“Yes, the design is very pleasing.”
Childe’s phone suddenly rang out obnoxiously in a tune Zhongli didn’t recognize and Childe fumbled to grab it from his pocket while a wide-eyed and wild expression overtook his features. He silenced his phone, looked down at the screen, and covered his mouth with a free hand as he set it down. He then slapped his leg twice while hunching over a little as if to contain laughter.
“Is something wrong?”
Childe’s words were muffled with the hand still clasped over his mouth as he showed Zhongli his phone. He took it with a confused nod of thanks, looked down, and read the message he pulled up.
3:04 pm, 2 weeks ago
GIRLY <3: I don’t know. I’m traveling now wherever business looks good, and Liyue isn’t a possibility at the moment. I’m in Sumeru rn and I may not be able to go at all if it keeps working out as good as it is now.
YOU: pls?????? pretty pls???? liyue is super fun you’d love it :((( u can hang out with me and zhongli we’d have a blast :((((
GIRLY <3: I’m busy. Don’t get your hopes up.
YOU: but u should come anyway!!!! u said u probably could when you started traveling :(((((((
GIRLY <3: I said probably. I am not making promises that I don’t know I can keep.
YOU: :,(((((((((((((((((
-
8:35 pm, Today
GIRLY <3: What’s up, fucker. Change of plans. I’m in Liyue now. Meet me at the dojo to get your ass kicked.
“Who is ‘Girly’?” Zhongli asked as he handed the phone back to Childe. Childe took it with a shake of his head, exhaling a shaky breath and visibly pulling himself back together.
“It’s Lumine,” Childe said with a wide grin. He stared at Zhongli the same way he stared at him when he expected him to know the Katy Perry song he played in the car, and Zhongli responded in silence yet again.
“Do you know her?”
“No.”
“Really!” Childe exclaimed. “Everyone knows Lumine! Like, literally
all
of my friends are friends with her. At this point, I stopped being surprised when I made a good friend when we found out we had her in common and started expecting it. Oh, you must know Aether instead.”
“I do not know Aether. Is Lumine one of your celebrity friends?”
At that moment, a server walked into their room quietly. “Hello,” she greeted with a soft smile. “Please pardon my interruption, gentlemen. Do you two need another moment, or have you decided what you’d like?”
“Oh gosh, I haven’t even looked at the menu yet,” Childe sighed. “Um… The genmaicha? I saw it on your specials.”
“Yes, Sir. We had the most recent rice and tea harvest imported from Inazuma this season. And you?”
“The same,” Zhongli said because it was the first thing he could think of.
“Oh, can we have some almond tofu to go with that?” Childe asked with a smile.
“One order, or two?”
Childe turned to Zhongli. “You want some?”
“Sure,” Zhongli said without thinking.
“Wonderful pairing. I will be back. Please enjoy your stay, gentlemen.”
The server left and Childe directed his attention to Zhongli. “She’s not a celebrity,” he elaborated. “She’s just very social and travels a lot, so she has a lot of friends. Like, a
lot
of friends.”
Zhongli hesitated a little before asking the next question. “Are you two in a relationship?”
Childe visibly processed his question before laughing. “We’re not dating,” he chuckled. “We had a thing in high school, but it didn’t last long since we were both kids and we clashed too much when our relationship was romantic. We’re both pretty intense, so we weren’t too good of a match in that sense and it didn’t last long. I think we only dated for a couple of months. We’re really good friends now, though! Why’d you ask?”
“I saw that you gave her a nickname and added a heart to her contact.”
“I like messing with her,” Childe shrugged with a smile. “It’s hard not to make fun of her because she gets annoyed very easily. She bullies me back, so it’s okay.”
“Bullies? I am concerned.”
“You don’t pick on your friends at all?”
Zhongli shook his head. “I cannot imagine doing such a thing to a friend.”
“It’s our way of showing each other we care, even if it’s weird,” Childe smiled.
“I… I think I understand,” Zhongli nodded. Childe studied his expression, and after a while of silence, he laughed again.
“I can give
you
a nickname and a heart and change her contact to just ‘Lumine’ if you’re jealous,” Childe teased with a smirk, and Zhongli tsked.
“I am not jealous. How childish. That is quite humorous of you to suggest,” Zhongli scoffed, and Childe laughed again. He tapped on his phone for a second before putting it back in his pocket.
“Sorry for getting my phone out, by the way,” Childe said. “By the way, what- Wait, did you say you didn’t know Aether?”
“That is what I said, yes.”
“Really?!”
Childe looked legitimately shocked and Zhongli couldn’t understand why. “Is
he
a celebrity, then?”
“He’s not a celebrity,” Childe said again. “I just, wow, you
really
don’t know him?
Everyone
knows Aether.”
“How is that so?”
“Everyone has either dated him or had a crush on him. He’s charming.”
Zhongli tilted his head. “Have you dated him, then? And who is he, exactly?”
“Lumine’s twin brother. I actually had a crush on him in late high school and almost went for it, but Lumine scared me out of it,” Childe chuckled. “I’m glad to be friends with both of them now. Ooh, you should come with me when I spar Lumine! I really want you to meet her.”
“I saw in the message she sent that she requested for you to meet her at a dojo. Is sparring a common activity shared by both of you?”
“She was my sparring partner in judo,” Childe grinned.
“You did judo?”
“All through high school! I still now with my trainer as part of my workout routine, but not as often. Lumine and I used to do some really serious fights, so outside of the dojo we’d meet up in her garage to fight since we’d beat each other up too much and got in a lot of trouble. I still have scars from our knife fight.”
“From your what now?”
Childe laughed again. “It sounds weird out loud, but I promise it isn’t as bad as it sounds! We were just stupid kids and were found out about pretty soon after. We didn’t have any crazy fights like that and I promise we never seriously hurt each other. We just thought it’d be fun since it looked cool in movies.”
Zhongli shifted in his seat a little and spoke before his mind could catch up with his actions. “Who won?” he asked sheepishly.
“Oh, Lumine did. She always does. I’ve never won a fight against her and probably never will.”
“So, when you meet with her to spar, you will inevitably lose?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Ah. I see. I never had a sparring partner I was that close with.”
Childe tilted his head and Zhongli had a quiet thought that the action was adorable. “Sparring partner?”
“I took jujitsu classes in high school and college.”
Childe blinked, leaned back, and he spoke his next words slowly. “So… You know how to fight?”
“I do not remember as much as I did then and never was that amazing, but I suppose so,” Zhongli mumbled, choosing not to reflect on all of the fights he found himself in his younger days let alone how many of them he won, or even if he
ever
lost. Childe was quiet, but his expression was morphing into something competitive and a flicker was starting to flash in his eyes.
“You wanna spar?”
“What?”
Childe paused for another second. “I don’t ask much because people think I’m weird,” Childe began in a hushed voice, “but I
love
sparring. I mean, I
love
a good match, and I’d
love
to see who’d win if we had a round at it.”
“I do not find fighting to be leisurely and would prefer to avoid it when I can.”
“That’s okay,” Childe hummed, immediately returning to his usual self and leaving Zhongli a bit confused. “I’d still like you to come with me when I see Lumine again and spar her. Is watching people fighting more your thing?”
“That’s alright with me. What does Lumine do for a living, by the way?”
“She’s a traveling judo master!” Childe grinned. “She goes all over to different dojos to help instruct people, never tied down to one place. Her brother Aether is a primary school teacher, but I think he’s looking into something that will let him travel more, too. They both really like going from place to place. I can’t wait for you to meet her, Zhongli! Maybe I’ll host a party at my house. I want you to meet the rest of my friends if you haven’t already!”
“Will you spar there?”
“That’s a great idea!” Childe laughed. “Now we are for sure! Haha, everyone will watch her embarrass me again. I think she likes beating me up so much because I’m her ex.” Zhongli laughed a little at his joke. “That’s enough about me, though. I’m sorry for talking your ear off.”
“You’re okay. I’m happy to listen to your stories,” Zhongli smiled. “I find your life interesting and enjoy hearing about it.”
Childe flushed pink and waved his words away. “T-Thanks, Zhongli,” he stuttered. “Um, do you have any old friends or exes you're still in touch with, while we’re on the subject? Oh, sorry. That may be weird of me to ask.”
“I don’t think it’s weird. I’m happy that you take interest in my life.” Zhongli thought on his next words before he spoke again. “I’ve only dated two people. One was a man named Azdaha. I met him while I worked at the University. He was a student my age and working on his PhD. We dated for a time and broke up when we had a bit of a… falling out, but we’ve repaired our friendship since then. I’m still in contact with him now. He’s engaged, actually. I was invited to the wedding next Spring. He’s busy with preparations and I with work, so we haven’t spoken much lately. Then I… I dated a woman afterwards.”
“Who was she?”
Zhongli let out a small breath. “Her name was Guizhong.”
A small period of silence passed between them. “You look a little upset,” Childe then observed. “You don’t have to talk about anything you’re not comfortable with, but if you do want to tell me, I’m happy to listen.”
“It’s alright,” Zhongli assured with a small smile.
The door opened then and the smell of green tea filled the room. Their server set down a pot and two cups from her tray then two small plates and another one stacked with almond tofu. She nodded at both of them with a smile.
“Please enjoy.”
She disappeared as quick as she came before Zhongli could thank her, then Childe and he were alone again. “Are you… did you want to talk about it?”
“I do, actually,” Zhongli said. “Do you mind listening?”
“Zhongli, of course I don’t mind,” Childe assured. “I’m more than happy to listen to anything you want to tell me.”
Zhongli nodded. “She passed away four years ago in a car crash.”
A moment of silence passed between them. “Zhongli,” Childe then said softly with a fallen face, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Zhongli assured. “I’m in a much better place than I was a few years back.”
“Do you… Do you want to tell me about her?”
“I believe I do,” Zhongli said mostly to himself. “This is… You may be the only other person I’ve talked about this to other than my therapist. I didn’t think people wanted to be burdened with-”
“You’re
not
a burden.”
Childe took his gloved hand in his own and gave it a squeeze. “Please don’t think you’re a burden when you talk to me,” Childe smiled gently. “Thank you for being open and thank you for sharing this with me, Zhongli. Please don’t feel like you’re burdening me by telling me this. I’m happy to listen and support you whenever you need it.”
Zhongli felt his eyes sting from the sincerity in Childe’s words, and when he found himself at a loss of what to say, he started talking about it instead. “She was an agriculture professor. I quit my job after she passed because it reminded me of her too much. But… It’s been a long time. I’ve come to accept it, have been working with my therapist all these years, and we both believe I’ve made good progress. She… She was kind, intelligent, and I will always miss her, but I am ready to move on. I do not wish to be in the past mourning what once was forever.”
“I’m happy to support you in any way I can, so please tell me if you need anything,” Childe said. “It means so much to me that you trust me enough to share this with me. It really does.”
“It means so much to me that you care to listen,” Zhongli smiled in return. “Thank you. It truly is best to not dwell on the past for too long. I am here now with you in your company and am very thankful.”
“And I’m thankful that I can listen to you when you need to tell me anything. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
Childe squeezed his hand again and Zhongli felt his heart flutter in affection in his chest. “You are too kind,” he managed.
“Now… Don’t say that,” Childe laughed softly. “Don’t expect anything less of me.”
Zhongli looked down at their hands, still intertwined, and he rubbed his thumb over Childe’s palm. Their fingers were now in one another’s hold, fitting so well that Zhongli wondered if they were made to hold one another. “Um… Pardon my sudden change of tone and subject,” Zhongli began, “but aren’t we here to take pictures for the agreement?”
“Oh! I forgot!” Childe exclaimed. With his free hand, he took out his phone and started taking pictures of the food and tea. “Thank you for pointing that out, Zhongli. I would have forgotten!”
Zhongli smiled as he watched Childe fumble over himself, still holding Zhongli’s hand as he took a picture of a few more things then set his phone back in his pocket. “Is it okay if we do change the subject and talk more about the agreement?” Childe then asked. “If you still want to talk, I wouldn’t mind listening. I’m sorry, that sounded like I was pushing you into talking about other stuff.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Zhongli smiled. “I am the one who changed the subject. I would like to continue our date now and move on from that.”
“Okay,” Childe agreed with a smile. “On that note, your account manager made you a social media account but hasn’t posted anything yet. They wanted the okay from you that it was alright to start posting and see if you wanted to run it, too.”
“I do not think I need another thing to occupy my time with,” Zhongli chuckled. “They may run it if you trust them to do so.”
“Okay! Just let me know if you change your mind. I’ll give you their email, too,” Childe smiled. “What should I caption the pictures with”
“I am not good at coming up with such things.”
“I’m just going to say the tea was good,” Childe shrugged, then he froze. “Oh my Gods, the tea. Is it cold?”
Zhongli finally took a sip of his cup and sighed. “Indeed it is.”
“Darn,” Childe grumbled. “Sorry. This week is just not my week. I can’t take you to dinner, I took you to a teahouse for the tea to get cold, I couldn’t do anything else because of work as if that in itself isn’t stressful enough… I promise I’ll make it up to you and have a good date next time! I’ll make it so fun you forget about how lame this one was.”
“I think this date has been lovely so far.”
Childe looked at him, face undeniably bright red, and Zhongli found himself still talking. “This experience, being with you, you listening to me without judgment when I needed to be heard, your stories, they all made this date nothing short of lovely. Thank you for treating me.”
Childe stared at him, ears burning and mouth stuttering over words before he responded. “D-Don’t mention it,” he mumbled. “You s-shouldn’t expect anything less, Zhongli. Um… T-Thank you for going with me, too. And next time will still be better, so you just wait!”
Zhongli smiled at him. “I’m already looking forward to it.”
___
“Thank you as always, Zhongli. The photos turned out great and tonight was really fun!”
Childe turned down the blaring music as he parked in front of Zhongli’s apartment complex so he could hear him speak. “Oh, by the way, in a couple of weeks or so Fatui is having a party in Mondstadt to celebrate an increase in profits. I’ll email you a schedule with dates so you can see if you can get time off work. It’ll just be over the weekend, so it shouldn’t interfere too much.”
“That sounds adequate,” Zhongli nodded. “I will request time off on the proposed dates. Thank you for letting me know in advance.”
“Of course! Oh, before I forget,” Childe then said, going through his bag to take out his leather wallet, “here’s your month’s compensation as promised!”
Childe handed him a crisp, clean check, and Zhongli took it gently. He looked down to study it, felt his stomach flip, and his heart pounded in his ears.
Six thousand dollars. They discussed this before, but it still felt surreal. He was holding it, in his
hands,
at that
. Six thousand dollars.
He couldn’t look away.
He’d buy a new fridge. No, he’d save it. No, he’d invest in a new apartment. No, he’d-
“I’ll see you next week.”
It took a moment for Zhongli to register that Childe spoke, still looking down at the check in disbelief. “Y-Yes,” he then managed, opening the door to step out. “Goodbye, Childe. T-Thank you… Thank you.”
“It’s just what was promised,” Childe shrugged. “Take care!”
“You as well.”
With that, Zhongli closed the door behind him, went to walk up the stairs with a wave, and unlocked his apartment door while Childe waited in the parking lot. He waved one last time as Childe pulled out once he opened the door, then he shut himself inside, slumped against the door, and pressed the check to his chest.
Six thousand dollars.
He sat down on the floor, staring down at it, at his new pants, his shoes, and the sleeves of his jacket. He felt blessed, and somehow, he felt like everything was going to be okay.
This was more than enough to fix everything that needed fixing. And if he saved up, maybe, just
maybe
he could move somewhere better.
He found himself smiling, and even worse than that, he found himself wanting more. Not more compensation, not more clothes, but more of being with Childe. If he could, he’d share a pot of tea and talk about everything with him forever. Whether that was selfishness or not, he didn’t know, and he found that he didn’t mind not knowing.
Maybe he was becoming spoiled. He strangely didn’t mind that idea, either.
___
Breakroom coffee was terrible. Worse than his own, even, though he didn’t like coffee in general. Not once when he bought it at too pricey shops or took it where it was free did he find it appealing. He was advised to put cream and sugar in it, but the idea of adding onto a pure substance that must be fine on its own put a bitter feeling on his tongue worse than the drink itself.
He slept in a little since he had a long night, thus he was drinking break room coffee to ease the fog clouding his mind rather than brewing a pot like he usually did. He arrived at work early as usual, but his rush was evident in his unbrushed hair, wrinkled clothes, and foul look on his face from still being utterly exhausted. This was evident from the way his co-workers looked at him as he walked through the door and how they looked away when he made eye contact with them. His night out with Childe was pleasant, though it was long and he didn’t sleep too well the previous night, mind still occupied with their long and heartfelt conversations, how dashing Childe looked in a suit, and the outstanding tea that was kindly rebrewed for them when their server was notified that they were too immersed on one another’s company to realize it had gotten cold.
It was a wonderful night and a groggy morning. Zhongli wished the coffee machine worked faster.
The break room door swung open and Zhongli didn’t even have to look up to know who just entered. He could tell by the prancing and joyous footsteps alone that Hu Tao was waltzing her way to the coffee machine.
“Morning!” She sang with an audible grin. “Oh, you look rough. I’ve never seen you drink breakroom coffee before. Are you okay?”
“I am alright,” Zhongli meant to say calmly, though it came out in more of a grumble. “A bit tired is all. Thank you for your concern, Director.”
“I said you could call me Hu Tao,” she pouted. “How was your day off?”
“It was nice. Thank you.”
“Mine was nice too,” Hu Tao sighed. “I have an old friend visiting here soon! She and her brother, actually. I’m really excited!”
“Brother?” Zhongli asked, swearing this news was a degree of familiar to him. “Who is your friend?”
“A girl named Lumine,” Hu Tao smiled. “Her twin Aether is on holiday, so she told me she’s going to show him the sights for a couple of months!”
Zhongli realized then that Childe saying everyone knew Lumine and Aether was no exaggeration. “I have a friend who mentioned her return,” Zhongli found himself saying. The coffee machine finished brewing his cup, so he took the mug and stepped away so Hu Tao could have hers.
“Oh? Who’s
your
friend, then? And did you say if you knew them, too?”
“I do not know them,” Zhongli said.
“Really?! That’s surprising.
Everyone
knows Lumine and Aether.”
Zhongli had a feeling he’d be hearing that a lot.
“Is that so?”
“Mhm! Well, everyone but you, I guess. I’ll have to introduce you to them if your friend doesn’t beat me to it.” Hu Tao paused, tapping her chin then snapping as her face lit up. “I have a hunch your ‘friend’ is the partner you won’t tell me about. Is this correct of me to assume?”
“N-No, it is not,” Zhongli stuttered, hoping his statement came out as firmly as he intended. Judging by Hu Tao’s wide smirk, it did not.
“If you don’t introduce me, you’ll never get the couple’s discount when your time comes,” she grinned. “Though, knowing that Lumine knows them and with the hunches I have on who it may be, I may figure it out before you tell me! Maybe Lumine knows already and
she’ll
tell me!”
“What do you mean by hunches?”
“It’s nothing you should waste what time you have left worrying about.”
Hu Tao skipped out of the break room with a fresh cup of coffee, leaving Zhongli standing alone and confused. He shook his head, dismissing her words as her strange sense of humor, and looked at the clock on the wall.
It was nearly time. He should get to his tasks.
Before Zhongli move to leave the breakroom, the door opened again and a new face walked in. They gently closed the door behind them, turned around, looked up, and froze.
The new face must have been hired recently. He looked young, his business attire trendy compared to what seniors wore, and he carried himself as if he was fresh out or still in University. His eyes were wide, his body was still frozen, and Zhongli suddenly felt extremely awkward as silence filled the space between them.
Zhongli cleared his throat. He was his senior, so introducing himself would be the polite thing to do. The way the new employee was staring at him was extremely rude and left a bad taste in his mouth, but he was probably just nervous.
“Good morning,” Zhongli nodded. “I’m Zhongli, the-”
“You look familiar.”
The statement was spoken with conviction and he was still staring. Zhongli blinked, wondering what prompted this boy to be so rude to someone he’d never met before, let alone a co-worker. “Have we met before?” Zhongli then asked, not knowing what else to say. “I apologize, I do not recognize you. Would you mind telling me-”
“Do you know Tartaglia?”
Oh.
This was the publicity Childe warned him about. What should he say?
“I apologize. I am afraid I don’t know who Tartaglia is,” Zhongli said when his brain short-circuited. “Forgive my bluntness, but is that any way to converse with your senior? I do not believe you’ve given me your name yet.”
The door creaked open and Zhongli saw Hu Tao peeking inside. She gave him a look as if to ask what he was doing, and Zhongli widened his eyes a little in a silent plea for help.
“No, you look
really
familiar,” the man said. “Are you sure you don’t know him? Like… I think you’re… You have to be! You’re that guy he’s-”
“I see you’ve met Zhongli!” Hu Tao suddenly beamed, walking through the door with a wide smile and roughly patting the man on his back. “This is your new boss! He’s Wansheng Funeral Parlor’s
best
consultant. Zhongli, meet our newest intern. This is his first day!”
The intern’s eyes blew open wide and Zhongli awkwardly shifted his weight to the other foot. “Maybe work on your greetings,” Hu Tao said in a slightly darker tone. “I’d hate for you to keep this attitude up.”
“M-Mr. Zhongli, I’m so sorry,” the intern stuttered. “I-I must have gotten you mixed up with someone else! I p-promise I’ll be more professional in the future.”
“That… That’s alright,” Zhongli found himself saying. “What did you say your name… Was…”
The intern rushed out, red in the face and eyes down before he could finish his sentence. Hu Tao looked just as perplexed as he felt regarding the whole situation, standing in a daze before speaking.
“I’ll talk to him,” Hu Tao said. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that, Zhongli. I should have spoken to him before he met you.”
“I think he just… was a little confused,” Zhongli said slowly. “It’s alright. I can sympathize with being nervous on your first day.”
“That isn’t an excuse, but I expected you to say as much. You are very forgiving, Zhongli,” Hu Tao sighed. “Well, I’ll be in my office if you need anything! Talk to you later!”
Hu Tao bounced out of the breakroom as if nothing happened and Zhongli realized his coffee was cold. He drank it anyway, hoping the caffeine would help him get into the mood to work after that ordeal.
He wondered how many more people would recognize him, and he wondered what weight Childe’s words on their arrangement not interfering with work still held. Maybe…
The thought of talking to Hu Tao was embarrassing, to say the least, but maybe it was necessary if his side “hustle”, as Lisa called it, was mingling with his career. But he wouldn’t rush into bursting into her office. He’d think about it.
Yes... Certainly, that was the wisest thing to do. Just… Think about it.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
"We're going to lay down some
rules
."
Marker in hand, Peter slaps a hand against the whiteboard he's tacked onto the wall beside the kitchen and turns to face the four men sitting/sprawling about. Bob nods enthusiastically while Loki, having finally been coaxed out by Peter, shoots the teenager an unimpressed look.
Peter knows he doesn't really cut the most intimidating figure, standing there in a yellow hoodie, faded blue jeans and mismatched tartan socks, but he has to at least make an effort to introduce some rules into his house,
goddamn it.
"First of all, I am the supreme overlord. I make all the decisions and rules in this house," He pauses to let the words sink in. Loki looks even more unimpressed, if possible, and Wade is busy trying to coax one of Nicolai's dogs to sniff his butt. Nicolai looks like he's on the verge of strangling the spandexed man again. No one pays any attention to him except the new guy, Bob, who's on the edge of his seat. Peter fights off the urge to cry in sheer frustration.
Bob raises a hand suddenly.
"Yes, Bob?"
He grates out with a scowl.
"What happens if you're not there, Mr. Parker?" The man asks.
"Call me Peter, and if I'm not there, Nicolai is in command. No questions or objections," Peter folds his arms over his chest. Wade pauses at that and the puppy escapes his clutches, racing back to its master for comfort.
"How come it's not
meeeeeee?
" Wade wails. Peter fights down his blush and tries to shove the man off when Wade wraps his arms around his torso, refusing to let go. Loki rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time while Bob watches them with one of the
sappiest
smiles Peter has ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon.
"Okay, second rule, no one tries to torture, maim, kill etc. or perform any other kinds of questionable and possibly villainous activities within the confines of this property or toward each other," Peter gives up and continues, Wade's masked face uncomfortably close to his crotch. "That also extends to a five mile radius around the property. You know what, just don't do anything bad and don't harm your housemates.
Period
. With the exception of Wade."
Wade blows a loud raspberry into Peter's stomach. Peter sighs.
"Rule no.3, refrain from killing Wade Wilson more than once a day. No blood, guts, brain matter etc. inside the house. If I see any in the carpets..." Peter lets his words trail off into an ominous silence, as ominous as one can be with a full-grown unitard-clad man wrapped around one's torso.
Loki smirks at this as Nicolai makes a deliberate show of cracking his knuckles. Bob looks like he wants to protest, but closes his mouth when the two other men on the couch turn to stare at him. Wade fakes a half-hearted whimper and pinches Peter's butt. Peter fights off the urge to sigh again.
It's going to be a
long
day.
"
Are we there yet?"
Bob asks for the fifth time. Peter grips the steering wheel of his dusty old van and shoots Loki a warning look.
"No, you cannot stab Bob or rip out his throat with your bare hands," Peter says without pause. Bob makes a strangled little whimper in the backseat and curls up into a tiny ball. He somehow looks even thinner in the plaid shirt and khaki jeans, his sandy hair flopping into his eyes. Bob looks like your average IT guy, the whole picket fence, two kids and a dog sort of dude under the green spandex (definitely an improvement, Peter's quite sick of seeing spandexed man-parts jiggling about in his house). Peter can't help but wonder what Wade looks like under his costume.
Loki pockets one of his knives with a sullen glare, leans his green sweater-clad shoulder against the door and stares out the window at the endless expanse of grass. Loki is in civilian clothes and sensible brown boots, thank God. Peter cannot imagine what would happen if he came along with them fully decked out in the usual leather and horned helmet getup. He'd probably get pulled over before he even made it to the nearest town.
"Almost, Bob." He reassures.
"Would it be okay if I told you I really need to
pee
right about now?" Bob asks cautiously.
Peter counts to five silently in his head and slams down hard on the brakes. His old van putters to a stop in the middle of nowhere.
"No, you still can't kill him," Peter recites when Loki turns his gaze expectantly over to him after Bob scampers off into the grass.
"Okay, maybe scare him a
little,
" He finally relents.
Loki smirks.
They need food, supplies and clothes. Lots and lots of them, especially after the arrival of two more people. Winter was approaching and Peter needed to get plastic sheets for his vegetable patches as well as a couple of more shovels. Unfortunately, Wade was going through his farming tools like an angry bull in a china shop.
So Peter gets one of those shopping cart/flatbed thingies and leads two of the shadiest people on Earth into the nearest Costco. He gives them each a different list of things (Loki, clothes and plastic sheets, Bob, other harmless supplies) and sends them off. Peter does not want to come back and see Loki standing over Bob's decapitated corpse like some crazy parody of the
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
, so he goes for the more dangerous things himself. He needs one of those electric drills, some shovels and a chainsaw. They're in desperate need of a new tool shed and Peter would really like to fix that annoying hole on the second floor that no one else seem to have any trouble avoiding, so he also gets a bunch of wooden boards, nails, protective goggles and work gloves as well. He's got four grown-ass men leeching off of him for free, so they should at least help him patch up the goddamn farm.
Peter doesn't know whether being in the company of three homicidal men has rubbed off on him or not, but he notices a tall intimidating Caucasian man in a worn brown leather jacket and dark hoodie tailing him after a while. He's not really worried. They're in Costco for goodness sakes, what's the guy going to do?
Hit him over the head with a giant bag of almonds?
But for safety reasons, he quickens his step and heads for the produce aisle to meet up with Loki and hopefully, a still alive Bob.
Except, his stupid cart won't budge.
Peter looks around nervously, and yeah, they've wandered into the really remote sections where the store sells bathtubs and sinks. There's not a soul in sight, just rows upon rows of porcelain bowls and shower heads, and Peter's brain flashes the inappropriate headlines for tomorrow's news:
Stupid Teenager Found Beaten to Death With Shower Head.
He thinks about running, but Peter's spent so much time picking up his items and he doesn't want to abandon them, so he grabs the handle of one of the shovels and braces himself. A hand lands heavily upon his shoulder and Peter plucks at his shovel, but it doesn't budge and holy shit, one of the metal tubes nearby uncoils itself and floats to wraps tightly around Peter's wrist, slamming him against the steel skeleton of the display shelf.
Peter's pretty sure he's not high, but shower heads don't usually behave that way. The mysterious stranger pulls off his dark hoodie to reveal a somewhat tired face and intense grey-blue eyes.
"
You broke it, you buy it
," Peter blurts out accusingly before mentally smacking himself in the face when the brunet man lifts an eyebrow and glances at the shower head in question. Peter bites his lip. If the guy hadn't wanted him dead, he definitely did now.
"Are you Peter Parker?" The man asks in a low rough voice. He's got an almost non-existent accent that Peter can't really make out.
"Are you going to kill me if I say yes? If you say yes, then I'm going to say no, I'm not this Parker guy, but if you say-"
A calloused palm claps over his mouth, forcing his words back into his throat. Peter gulps and tries not to scream in panic when the tubes tighten around his wrists. There's definitely going to be bruising tomorrow, that is if he lives to see it.
"No, I am not going to
kill
you," The man hisses impatiently. There's a brief pause. Leather Jacket looks annoyed and a little resigned. "I heard from a contact of mine that your place serves as a temporary resort for people like us when we need to lay low."
"People like
who
?" Peter asks breathless and bewildered when the stranger takes his hand away. His wrists are still encased in metal tubing, but they've loosened slightly.
"Who are probably not on the list of model citizens," the brunet man says bitterly.
"You mean
bad guys
?" Peter ventures.
"So to speak."
There's a slightly menacing gleam in the man's eyes.
"Like bank robber bad or evil super villain bad?" Peter asks weakly, his eyes flickering wearily to the floating shower head. The man just gives him this sharp smile that somehow manages to show all of his teeth.
Peter gulps and opens his mouth to speak, but something collides forcefully with the back of Leather Jacket's head and the guy crumples to the ground. Peter uncoils the metal tubes around his wrists and jumps away in shock, his heart pounding. Bob stares down horrified at the the unconscious man, a large bag of something clutched tightly in his hands.
"Is that
almonds
?" Peter croaks incredulously.
Bob scratches his head and looks down, "raisins, I think..."
"What happened? How did you know I was in trouble?" Peter asks, amazed.
Bob looks a little sheepish, but there's a determined look in his eyes, "Mr. Wilson says to keep an eye on Mr. Parker, because he is very precious. And what is important to Mr. Wilson is also very important to Bob." He explains.
Peter feels his heart skip a beat. "Wade, he said that...?" he trails off pathetically, cheeks flushing ridiculously warm. Peter shakes his head and takes a deep breath to compose himself.
There's a beat of silence before they both peer down at the unconscious body.
"So what do we do now?
" Peter asks.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
One year and a little while later…
He woke to the smell of honeysuckle, and buried his face in Myrcella’s neck. Her body was tucked against his, and her hand reached back to stroke into his curls as she stretched as much as she was able.
“
Morning,
” she greeted him in her liquid voice that she always had when she was allowed to wake naturally after a good night’s sleep.
“Morning,” he said as he kissed her shoulder, his hands wandering her body.
“Can I turn around?” she asked.
He loosened his grip on her and she twisted, their lips meeting as she turned towards him, one of her legs moving between his and the other draping over. Her legs were bare and silky as they wandered against his calves.
His hand went underneath her tank top, rubbing her back, up until he could grasp the back of her neck. He smiled against her lips as she melted against him.
A year ago she would have tensed. The feeling of his hand on her neck would have called up too many memories. Even if she was able to override it enough to enjoy the feeling, her first reaction would have churned his gut.
Now he was able to touch her however he wanted. They had both spent a lot of time ensuring that her body knew what her mind and heart did, that he would only ever touch her with gentle fingers. He had never seen a body so eager to be trained as hers, and she had approached it with the same dedication that she had all her healing. She was such an affectionate person, and she had not wanted to have limitations between them. She did not want him to have to think too hard about how he touched or approached her, though he always would.
“Everything hurts,” she told him.
He chuckled against her, rubbing her side with one hand and her thigh with the other, “I am not saying anything.”
She and Sansa had taken a hike with Arya the day before. He had tried to warn her that his sister’s competitive natures would ultimately cause her to regret that decision, but she had rolled her eyes, reminding him that she had grown up with them too. When she had returned she had been a shell of a person, her golden hair matted to her face, her knee skinned from slipping on a rock. She had taken a bath and gone to bed without dinner, and he had been warned to say absolutely nothing about it.
Silent for a moment, she asked, “I can’t remember… is it a long walk to the quarry?”
“No,” he assured her, and by the way she nudged him he knew she had heard the smile in his voice.
“Do you think Will is going to be bored?” she asked with a yawn, tilting her face up to his. “Lots of younger kids.”
“Henry is going to come,” he told her.
She pulled back to look at him, her brow furrowed and said, “I thought they weren’t supposed to get back until the weekend?”
He nodded, “Yeah uh, I spoke to his Dad briefly. I don’t think the trip did what they wanted it to.”
Myrcella’s eyes softened into sadness. Henry had been Will’s best friend since preschool. As such, he was a frequent visitor at his house and now Myrcella’s. Though he was a bit more outgoing than Will, they shared the same steadiness of character. He was unsure how they had chosen so well at the age of three, but he knew that Henry would be a permanent fixture in all their lives. They were all happy about that. JJ always pushed into his and Will’s time together, not wanting to be left out, and Joey had taken to blushing anytime Henry was in the same room as her. An only child, he never minded the fact that Will was a package deal.
And now he had a feeling Henry would be spending more time with them than ever.
“That’s awful,” Myrcella sighed.
His parents had been unhappy for a long time. The slow unraveling of their marriage was not as dramatic as his or certainly not Myrcella’s, but it was a tragedy all the same. He remembered meeting them at Thanksgiving pageants, laughing with them over how cute the kids were in their costumes forgetting all their words. They had been happy then, but not for years. This trip had been a last ditch effort to see if they could recalibrate, and coming home four days early in separate cars made it pretty evident that it had not been successful.
“I know,” he agreed, “I thought Henry would feel better after a day of normalcy.”
She nodded, “And it will give his parents a bit of space. I’ll text Jenna and offer for him to stay over.”
He stroked her cheek, admiring the way the morning light lit her pale green eyes.
The kids started school soon, and this being the last full one they had decided to do a staycation at his house. Myrcella, Joey and Chatty had arrived last weekend, and every day they had done something different. So far he was pretty sure the kids favorite had been the one rainy day, where they piled up and watched movie after movie, and played card games and ate cake for dinner. That was his favorite too. But he hoped this weekend would top it.
He was planning to ask Myrcella to marry him on Saturday night. He had been planning to ask her to marry him for over a year now, but had done his best to be patient. If all went well, on Sunday they would tell the kids and celebrate as a family.
It would go well. He was sure of it. This would not be a surprise to her. They had talked about it many times in the course of their relationship. He knew that she would not want a big wedding, and neither would he. They would both give up their houses and move into a new one.
Or an old one.
He had approached the buyers of Winterfell earlier in the summer. They were aging and their kids weren’t visiting in the way they had expected they might when they bought such a large estate. He had spoken to his siblings, not wanting to upset any of them by purchasing it when they had all let it go. The relief in all their faces at the idea of it being under Stark ownership once again had convinced him it was the right thing.
He was waiting to make things official until he could talk to Myrcella about it, but he was hopeful. He had seen the logic of not moving into one of their houses, but Winterfell had belonged to her as much as him.
Lowering his lips to hers, they shifted so he was on top of her. They had learned not to do anything more than kiss in the morning, as it was always possible one of the kids was going to rush into the room ready for the day to begin, but he lingered there, his heart aching with love for her.
When he lifted off her, she played dead, making him pick her up out of bed. They pulled themselves together, and she switched out her pajama shorts for joggers and pulled a sweater over her tank top. They had reached the part of the summer where the weather swung on a pendulum, and he couldn’t even tease her when she pulled on fuzzy socks before stepping into her slippers. He pulled on a pair of shorts, but grabbed a sweatshirt and they left his room and walked quietly down the hall.
Unsurprisingly, Will’s door was shut. JJ’s was open but he was fast asleep, snoring softly. Grey Wind was asleep in the hall, but near the landing, which along with her open door, told them that Joey had gone downstairs. He liked to be equidistant between all the kids, and would shift himself accordingly throughout the day and night.
They went down the stairs and found Joey in the living room, curled up on the couch under a blanket with Chatty reading.
Her eyes lifted as she heard them come in and a smile overtook her face, “Good morning!”
“Hi honey,” he grinned at her as they made their way over to her.
Piling in on either side of her, Joey leaned her back against him as she stroked Myrcella’s hair.
“You look so much better, Mommy,” she informed her.
Myrcella smiled, “I feel better but I’m sooooore.”
“Can I help?” Joey asked.
Myrcella nodded, opening up her arms and Joey crawled into them, hugging her mom around the neck. As always, the sight of them together was an assault.
“You know I’m kind of sore too… if anyone’s asking,” he said.
Joey looked at him and giggled, “You’re
fibbing
.”
Even still she and Myrcella opened their arms for him and he hugged them both, kissing Joey’s head and sneakily pulling her out of Myrcella’s lap and into his.
Not fooled, Myrcella smiled and stood up, “I’m going to make coffee. Want to take a blanket and go read outside?”
Joey nodded and looked up at him, “Do you want to?”
“I’m going where you’re going, honey,” he promised, rewarded by her burrowing into him.
A few minutes later, Myrcella came back with two mugs of streaming coffee. He picked up Joey, blanket, book, Chatty and all and grabbed another blanket off the couch and lead them out to the back. Settling down with Joey in his lap, Myrcella took the seat next to him, settling his mug down on the flat arm of the chair.
“Mommy guess what?” Joey said.
“What, baby?” she asked, taking a sip of her coffee and closing her eyes as she leaned back, accepting the blanket he had draped over her.
“The painting was fake,” Joey told her.
Myrcella’s eyes opened, “Fake? But they searched for it for so long.”
“I
know
,” Joey said and held up her book, “And look, it’s almost over!”
“That’s the first book in the series,” he told them. Both Myrcella and Joey looked at him, identical looks of betrayal on their faces. He looked between them, “I… thought… Will has the whole series upstairs.”
Joey looked at him, and then Myrcella and then down at the book, before falling back against him, “Oh thank goodness. I was nervous.”
“
You could have told us,
” Myrcella mumbled into her coffee.
“What was that?” he poked her gently.
“I was talking to Chatty,” she told him.
Joey giggled as she opened her book, believing Myrcella about as much as he did. He sipped his coffee and looked out at the woods behind his house. It was a perfect late summer morning. The air was crisp and without humidity. By the time they reached the quarry it would be warm enough to swim, and the cooling early evening air would motivate the kids to go home in a way none of them ever could.
Jon, Sansa and Kitty would be joining, along with Arya who was staying with them for the forseeable future. Sam and Gilly would be coming along with their kids, and they’d pick up Henry on their way.
“Robb how high is it to jump?” Joey asked, a bit nervously.
“There are a range of spots to jump from,” he said, “But there are also places to wade in.”
“Where you’ll find me with the unicorn float,” Myrcella informed them both.
She was only saying that for Joey’s benefit. He had taken her to that quarry along with his siblings when they were kids and she had jumped from the highest point when she was ten. She would have done it sooner but he hadn’t allowed it.
Joey had made a lot of progress over the last year, as well, but there were many aspects of her personality that was crystallized, and that neither of them had any intention of changing. She was incredibly cautious, devoid of the daredevil energy JJ and Kitty shared. A part of it, he imagined, was just who she was, but in his opinion it went beyond that.
JJ and Kitty had never known real fear, so they enjoyed the adrenaline they earned from little bursts of it. Joey had lived in fear for so long that she had no desire to court it, and maybe never would.
“But what’s the lowest place you could jump from?” she asked.
“Hmm,” he looked at Myrcella, “What would you say, maybe 5 feet?”
She nodded, “That sounds right.”
Joey thought about it and said, “Will said he’d jump with me if I wanted. That he could hold my hand if it was wide enough. But I’m not sure.”
“You’ll see how you feel when you get there,” he told her. “There’s a rockslide that is fun too. And you could go down with me or Mommy.”
“Oh,” Joey smiled, as Myrcella’s eyes went to him briefly, “That sounds fun. Gilly is going to bring a float too. But I think hers is a giant pineapple.”
He and Myrcella smiled at the image of Gilly making Sam shlep a giant pineapple float, and continued drinking their coffee as Joey read.
She finished the book after a little while, and there was a brief moment of panic when she thought she had misplaced her Stark-Baratheon library card – not that Will would ever enforce that rule – but JJ saved the day when he came out shirtless in a pair of boxers and reminded Joey that she had left it in his room for ‘repairs’.
“I am cold just looking at you,” Myrcella tutted at JJ, and though he was now ten and decidedly nearing the ‘one arm hug’ stage, he let her pull him underneath her blanket.
He was waiting on a growth spurt, but seeing how far his legs stretched down Myrcella’s it was clear it wasn’t far off.
“What do we want for breakfast?” Robb asked them.
“Chocolate chip bagels,” JJ and Joey said in tandem.
He looked at Myrcella who scowled, “Theon is a dead man.”
He chuckled, “Yeah I’ve uh… made that clear. We could use some bagels for the weekend though. I can run out. Anyone want to come?”
“I do,” Joey told him.
“Want to take the convertible?” he asked her.
She looked up at him and smiled. Joey loved his Dad’s old convertible, just like Myrcella once had and still did. Many evenings for the past two summers they had all piled in after dinner, ostensibly to go out for ice cream but really because they liked to ride in it.
“What about you, buddy?” he asked JJ.
“
Stay,
” Myrcella whispered.
“What?” JJ asked her with a smile.
“
Don’t leave me,
” she said.
He giggled and nodded, “I’ll stay with Ella. But Joey…”
JJ then looked at Joey and swiped his finger over his nose. Joey returned the gesture before looking up at him innocently.
He would concede one chocolate chip bagel each for the kids, which they would have to ration over the weekend however they saw fit. That was about as hard a line as he was looking to draw on their last full week of summer vacation.
After he and Myrcella convinced Joey that she could go in her pajamas, they headed to the garage. She was still too small to sit in the front seat in spite of her age, so she huddled in the back seat with a blanket over her as he drove through the quiet streets. There were a few people out, walking their dogs or running, but for the most part they had the street to themselves. A lot of people had chosen to go away this week, which was one of the reasons they had chosen to stay.
They had traveled a bit that summer, all of them spending a surprisingly enjoyable week at Casterly Rock. Tywin had pulled out all the stops, and while the majority of his attention and kindness went to Joey, the boys had loved it. Will had gone hunting with him and Tywin, and Tywin had been impressed with his aim in spite of himself.
His and Tywin’s relationship was better than expected, significantly better than his with Cersei or Myrcella’s uncles. While Tywin himself was not a donor to his pro bono practice, focusing on women extricating themselves and their children from bad situations, he had connected him with some helpful people. More importantly, he silenced any attempts from his children to convince Myrcella to move closer to them. For his part, he seemed to have a shocking amount of business reasons for visiting the North, and they always seemed to coincide with something special in his granddaughter or great-granddaughter’s lives. The last visit had been for the end of year art show at Joey and JJ’s school, where Joey’s artwork had been chosen to represent the entire second grade class.
“Have you spoken to the General this week?” he asked Joey.
Her giggled filled his ears, “Yes. He was
very
annoyed because people are in-inco…”
“Incompetent?” he suggested.
“Yes,” Joey agreed, sighing dramatically, “Apparently he is surrounded by fools.”
He chuckled, “Poor Grandpa Tywin.”
“Guess what, though?” she asked. “He is
commissioning
me. So I’m a real artist now. He wants a full pastel of the garden I drew at Casterly Rock.”
He smirked, not even able to imagine how Tywin was going to compensate her. Truthfully, Joey had a somewhat remarkable talent, and it wasn’t just from those who were already biased towards her greatness. She was starting oil painting lessons after school this year, and his offices were filled with her artwork.
They got to the bagel shop, which had a line in spite of the early hour. He and Joey discussed their order while they waited, which was going to be an assorted baker’s dozen as well as a few cream cheeses for the boys. He dramatically saved the three chocolate chip bagels until the end, and Joey’s smile when he finally ordered them made him ask them to throw in an extra one that she and the boys could split.
Walking out of the shop with the bag in one hand and Joey’s hand in the other, he was stopped by a voice he hadn’t heard in ages.
“Stark?” Jon Umber asked.
“Jon, it’s been ages,” he smiled, “You back up North for good?”
“No, man, I wish,” Jon sighed, “I’m down south for the foreseeable, just up here with the boys before school starts to see my old man.”
He nodded, “How old are they now?”
“Five and seven,” Jon told him, “And growing limbs by the day.”
He chuckled, “I get it. Everyone’s good though?”
“Yeah everyone’s good,” Jon nodded and then his eyes trailed to Joey.
Jon was enormous and she had ever so slightly gone behind him, her cheek leaning against his arm. She was less skittish than she had been, but still preferred the company of girls and women outside the trusted few.
“And uh, is this your daughter?” Jon asked him.
Yes.
That’s what he wanted to say.
Yes, she’s my daughter. Isn’t she beautiful? You should see her grades. And her art – one of the most prominent collectors in the country is after her work. But it’s nothing compared to how sweet she is, you should see her with animals, and my sons.
Yes, that’s what he wanted to say. She is mine and I’m hers, and I’m the luckiest guy in the world because of it.
Instead though, he grinned and said, “Oh we’re old college buddies, aren’t we, Jo?”
Joey gave a thin, “Yes,” and he knew enough to move them along and not ask her to say more to him.
“A bunch of us are going to the quarry today if you guys feel like coming around,” he told Jon, “But uh, we should get back.”
They said their goodbyes and got back into his car.
“Want to stop by the farmer’s market to get some flowers for Mommy?” he asked her.
“Okay,” she said quietly, so quietly it was almost lost to the wind.
He glanced at her in the rearview mirror, and she looked lost in thought, looking out at the street, her chin resting on the side of the car. A part of him worried it was a mistake to invite Jon, but he doubted they would come, and if he did he was such a goofball that he was sure by the end of the day Joey wouldn’t be so nervous around him. He’d like to meet his boys, too, and he knew Jon would want to see him.
They stopped at the farmer’s market, and picked up late season hydrangeas for Myrcella. He got an extra one for Joey’s room. They also picked up some fresh corn and cherry tomatoes.
When they got back, Will was awake. Or at least, he was outside with JJ and Myrcella, sitting in the chair he and Joey had left vacant.
The boys were like wild animals when they saw the bag of bagels, and they all went into the house to sit down for breakfast.
Unsurprisingly, the boys did not choose to save their chocolate chip bagels and grabbed them immediately, JJ putting peanut butter on his and Will loading up his own with plain cream cheese. He asked Joey if she wanted hers too and she nodded, thanking him when he sliced it in half and put it on her plate, but made no move towards putting anything on it or eating it.
Myrcella was never hungry in the morning, but had taken half a pumpernickel and was spreading cream cheese on it, likely depleted from not eating the night before.
He grabbed the jalapeno cream cheese and started spreading it on an everything bagel, listening to the boys chatter with Myrcella, finishing up a conversation that they had apparently started while he was gone. Joey sat in between them quietly, not touching her food, or seeming to even really listen.
“Honey, do you want some butter or something?” he asked her.
Joey looked at him, her eyes wide, and shook her head.
“If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it,” JJ offered.
“You can have it,” Joey said quietly. She then looked at Myrcella, “Mommy can I go outside and pet Grey Wind?”
Myrcella looked confused but nodded, giving a scrunch-eyed smile when she said, “Of course, baby.”
Without another look at any of them, she pushed away from the table and went outside.
Will looked at him, “What’s wrong with Joey?”
Myrcella said nothing but looked at him too, waiting for an explanation.
“I uh… I don’t know…” he said.
“I can go –“
“I’ll go,” he interrupted Myrcella.
Their gaze held for a moment and then she nodded. He walked outside, into his backyard, where he found Joey sitting and petting Grey Wind, who had laid his head in her lap, his tail wagging slowly back and forth.
He went and sat down facing her, smoothing his hand over Grey Wind’s flank, eliciting a groan from his dog that usually would have earned him a giggle from Joey.
“Honey, is everything okay?” he asked her.
She started to nod.
“Please don’t lie to me,” he said quietly. “If you aren’t ready to talk about it, that’s okay. But please don’t lie.”
Joey was silent for a long moment, and he watched as she tried to take control of herself. Labored breaths came first, and then tears, falling in thick clumps down her cheeks.
She could hardly speak, but he heard her well enough when she said, “I’m mad at you,” right before her voice cracked in a sob.
His heart broke, watching her so upset, knowing that he had caused it. He could not remember Joey ever being upset with him, except once when he had traveled at the start of the last school year. Even then though she hadn’t been mad at him, she had been sad.
“Oh honey, I’m sorry,” he said, because she was not a child who took offense easily. “Can you please tell me what I did?”
She shook her head, crying even harder.
“Do you want a hug?” he asked.
To his surprise she nodded and then all but hurled herself into his arms. He held her to him, her arms and legs wrapping around him as she sobbed against his throat. Rubbing her back, he held her tightly to him.
He wondered what he had done, but everything had been great all morning.
Until they had seen Jon Umber.
Tears filled his eyes, and he stroked her hair, trying to get control of himself.
“Honey…”
“Why can’t you be my Daddy?” she asked before a violent crack of a sob ran through her. Her entire body was shaking with the force of her sadness. “Why?”
“Oh honey,” he said, “I am. Okay? I am. I should have said yes. I’m sorry.”
“Then why didn’t you say yes?” she asked. “I… I’ll be… I’ll be good, I’ll be perfect, I just want you to be my Daddy, it’s the only thing I want.”
“Joey,” he wiped the tears from his cheeks and then took hers in his hands, making her look at him. He hadn’t seen her so distraught in over a year, and he couldn’t take it that he was the one that had caused it. “You don’t have to be anything except you. I have loved you since the first moment I laid eyes on you, okay, honey? You are mine and I’m so sorry I hurt your feelings.”
Her pale eyes looked into his, but the deep trust between them quieted her instantly. Her lip wobbled, but her voice was clear when she said quietly, “Daddy.”
A fresh batch of tears left his eyes, hearing her call him that. He nodded and kissed her forehead before leaning his against it.
“That’s right, honey,” he said, “I am going to teach you to drive, and take you off to college and walk you down the aisle, and be here every second in between, always.”
“That’s good. Mommy shouldn’t teach me to drive,” Joey joked and they both let out tear-filled laughs.
She wrapped her arms around his neck again and burrowed into it, taking settling breaths.
“I’m sorry,” she told him.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” he answered immediately. “You had every right to be upset, and I always want you to tell me if I’ve hurt your feelings. But I will never do it on purpose.”
“I know,” she said.
“Want to know a secret?” he asked her.
She nodded, pulling away to look at him and then she held out her pinky.
“I’m going to ask your Mommy to marry me,” he told her after he had hooked his through it.
Her eyes widened, “Do you have a ring? Are you going to get down on one knee?”
“I do,” he smiled. It was the ring his Dad had given to his Mom. The one she had left him in her Will. The one that he had never been able to give away to Roslin. “And yes, I think I should. Don’t you?”
She smiled and said, “Mommy will like that.” She looked at him and said, “She loves you so much. We talk about it a lot.”
“You do?” he asked.
Joey nodded, “I asked her once if… if ever before…” he nodded, not needing her to finish. She still couldn’t talk about Godry, but in consultation with Myrcella’s therapist they’d decided not to push her to speak to anyone until she was older. In the meantime, they were trying to make him a distant memory. “But she said no.”
He nodded, “I have never felt like this ever. And I wouldn’t ask her if I wasn’t all in on her and you for the rest of my life.”
“And JJ and Will,” Joey added.
“Yeah honey,” he smiled, “We are a package deal.”
“When are you going to ask?” she asked him.
“Soon,” he told her.
“Like… after breakfast?” she asked him.
He chuckled, “Like in a couple of days.”
She winced, “Are you sure you should wait?”
“Why? You going to tell on me?” he teased.
“No,” she giggled, “I pinky swore…”
He stroked her hair, “It’ll hold Jo. I promise.”
She looked at him and said, “But how can you wait?”
“I’ve had some practice being patient,” he told her gently.
“Oh,” she said, then smiled, “That’s very romantic.” He chuckled, ridding the last of the tears from her face. Her hand reached out to do the same for him. “Daddy…… do you think the boys ate my bagel?”
“They better not have,” he teased, “Let’s go see.”
They stood up and walked back into the house, hand in hand. The last ten minutes had changed his life forever, but only on the surface. The shift had happened some time ago.
Even still, Myrcella had reminded him how important it was to be loved. For so long with Roslin and afterwards, he had been focused on how he hadn’t loved her. But she hadn’t loved him either. He hadn’t realized how much that affected him until he felt the gentle force of Myrcella’s love every day.
With him and Joey it would always be imbalanced. She could never love him as much as he loved her, it just wasn’t possible, but she loved him as much as she could. He had known that for a long time, but he would never get used to it.
“Jo, come quick, I’ve been guarding your bagel from
thieves
,” Will said when they came in.
Myrcella gave him a look of concern, taking in Joey’s splotchy cheeks and likely his own red eyes, but he mouthed
it’s okay
and she focused her attention back on Joey as Will pulled her chair closer to his.
“I’m not a thief,” JJ said. “I just wasn’t sure if you wanted it.”
Joey giggled, “You can have some. I can never eat the whole thing.”
Will looked at Joey, his jaw clenching for a second and then looked at him. He gave him a nod and then Will sighed, pulling over the butter that Myrcella had clearly gotten while they were outside.
“We saved you the cow,” he handed her one of the butter knives, each of which had a different molded farm animal on it.
Joey took it and spread butter on her bagel, picking it up and eating it. She leaned against Will as she ate, which usually Myrcella would correct but she didn’t say anything now. Joey tore off a piece of bagel and handed it to JJ wordlessly, and then did the same with Will.
“Will I think the one that I want to try is five feet up,” Joey told him. “But… can I decide when I get there?”
Will nodded, “Yeah, you can swim a bit first and then we can try after lunch maybe if you want.”
“I want to jump with you guys,” JJ said. “I don’t mind the lower ones sometimes.”
“Can the three of us fit?” Joey asked. “If not maybe we can take turns. But –“
“You’ll all fit,” Myrcella told her as Joey tore off another piece of bagel for JJ.
Their eyes met and she gave him that look. The look he had seen the first night she had come back. The one he had seen, the one they had shared so many times since. The look that said she couldn’t believe the children they got to care for. For some time now, there had been something else in it. That they didn’t believe they got to raise them together.
Unaware, Will asked, “Do you think we should go in age order, or Joey in the middle?”
“Let’s do both,” JJ said. “But first Joey in the middle.”
Joey sat their chewing her bagel with a satisfied closed mouth smile while they discussed the logistics around her.
“Joey… I think I was wrong,” he told her. Her brow knit and he smiled at her, “I don’t think I can wait.”
She shook her head, “Me either. It’s eating
away
at me.”
He chuckled, “We can’t have that.”
Myrcella looked in between them, “What are you two talking about?”
“I’ll tell you in a second, sweetheart,” he said, “I just have to go grab something first.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
We must arrive soon.
The hills on their left flank went on for leagues, a constant companion as they rode along small roads and open fields. The company kept a punishing pace not letting up despite the occasional showers and treacherous conditions. No matter the circumstance the group pressed on, ever westwards.
Relentless,
Davos mused,
just like our leader
.
At the head of the group rode the King, his rough spun cloak billowing behind him as he drove his warhorse forward. The company of knights, lords and other retainers had no choice but to keep pace, certain that any pleas to let up their gruelling progress would go unheeded.
They had been on the road for several days now, leaving as dawn broke so as to make the most of the days ride. At first, some had thought that their leader intended to keep riding until they arrived at their destination. Thankfully as the sun dipped below the hills in the west the King had called a halt, allowing them to make camp in a small field.
That night the camp had been sombre, quiet. The King sat apart from the others, having his own tent and a separate fire to keep him warm. The King sat staring, his eyes fixed on the horizon. It was clear he did not wish for company nor even to be disturbed. Only Davos had dared approach him, bowing stiffly from the waist as he reached a respectable distance from his King.
“Your grace?”
The King was shrouded in shadow. The fire casting the only illumination on his sovereign’s emotionless face. For a brief moment Davos feared he had not been heard and that he may have to attempt to disturb the King yet again. But then the eyes blinked and moved to fix upon him.
“Well Onion Knight?” King Stannis’s voice was low, but firm, conveying the immense strength of the speaker. “What do you have to say?”
Davos was unnerved by the intensity of the gaze now on him. “Your grace,” he started, hesitating slightly before plunging on. “Perhaps we should take the journey more slowly, the horses are tired.”
“We are all tired Ser Davos.”
Not you, your grace. I’d wager you’d be willing to ride all night if you could but see where you were going.
“Granted, your grace. But even so it is, perhaps, unwise to exhaust our mounts when we have no idea what awaits us at the end of our journey.”
The King looked at him slightly differently. “You suspect that my brother might attack us?” Even though no emotion crossed his face, Davos could tell his master was curious.
Davos felt like he was being mocked. “I couldn’t say your grace, but it would be unwise not to take precautions. Allowing the horses and men to become too fatigued makes us ill-prepared to deal with anything that may occur.”
“I have permitted us to make camp.” The King’s voice took on a challenging tone. “Surely a nights rest will suffice?”
Davos sighed inwardly.
There is no use fighting this point, I’ll get nowhere
. “You have your grace, and we’re grateful….”
I can’t, I can’t let it go
. “But you may well need us to fight or flee at Renly’s camp –“
Instantly Davos realised that he had chosen his words poorly. A slight tremor of anger seemed to ripple through his King.
“I
will not
flee from Renly. No matter what occurs I shall never flee from that pampered adolescent.” The Kings voice was hard, resolute.
Hardly an adolescent, Renly had reached maturity years ago. Though perhaps only physically.
He made to reply, to correct his words, but the King waved his hand dismissively. “No Ser Davos, we press on. I am pressed for time and am already wasting too much of it here in the Reach. I mean to be back at Storm's End by the end of the week.”
Davos bowed, accepting his Kings word. It was after all, exactly the response he had expected. Even so there was a chance he could have spoken reason to the King.
It has been known to happen. Hasn’t occurred that often but it is possible.
Davos made his way back to the main part of the camp. As he passed the tent nearest to the kings fire he heard a voice.
“Come speak to me Onion Knight.” The voice was deep and melodious, full of the promise of seduction.
Warily, Davos Seaworth pulled aside the tent flap and stepped through the opening.
She stood there, in the centre of the tent. For a brief moment it looked as if light was streaming from her in all directions with only her body remaining in shadow. The effect was dazzling and intimidating, worthy of the rumoured powers the red woman was supposed to consort with. But no, Davos realised, she merely had a lantern held in front of her, with her back turned away from him. The effect that has seemed so awe inspiring before was nothing but an illusion. Yet another parlour trick, meant to deceive the gullible into believing the woman had supernatural powers.
And yet, I have seen things that tell me she does have some kind of power. How else could they be explained?
Melisandre, the Red Priestess. King Stannis’ closest advisor and confidant.
And, possibly, the greatest danger to the King.
“You needn’t be so cautious, Ser Davos. Come, step into the light.” Her voice was husky, as if spoken by a lover.
Seven help me
. “I’m quite content here, thank you my lady.” He remained stubbornly by the tent opening. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Melisandre turned to face him.
It
was
a lantern, thank the gods.
“You needn’t fear me, Ser Davos or the Lord of Light.”
Ah yes, the Lord of Light, a God that required ritual sacrifice in order to bestow his gifts on his worshippers.
“Apologies my lady. I am not a religious man.”
Melisandre smiled at him. “You are an unbeliever.”
“Begging your pardon my lady, I meant no disrespect.” Davos’s replied politely, “I’ve done a lot of travelling in my time. Everywhere you go the people claim that their god is the one true god. It’s hard to tell who has the right of it.”
Melisandre reached upwards and started to affix the lantern to the tents central support. “The Lord of Light is different to those others you have heard about.”
“How so my lady?” Davos asked, honestly curious.
Melisandre’s smile widened, she looked down from her efforts to hang the lantern, the light framing her face in an almost demonic fashion. “He
is
the one true god.”
Davos groaned to himself.
Father always told me never to argue with a drunk or a fool, and there is no one more foolish then a religious zealot.
He returned to his original question “Is there something I can help you with?”
Melisandre, having now fixed the lantern to the roof of her tent looked directly at his face. “You were trying to convince the King to take more time in travelling to the Reach.” It was not a question.
I won’t give her the satisfaction of asking how she knows that
. “It seemed prudent my lady. We do not know what reception we shall receive in Lord Renly’s camp.”
Melisandre looked indulgently at him. As if he were a child scared of his own shadow. “Prudent or not Ser Davos it is unnecessary. We will be in no danger in the Reach.”
“Forgive me my lady, but you cannot be certain of that?”
Melisandre glanced up at the hanging lantern. “Oh but I can Ser Davos, I have seen it in the fires.”
Wonderful, at least that explains why we’re out in the wilds with only a hundred men for protection.
“Well in any case, the King rejected my advice, he is determined to get to the Reach as soon as possible.”
Caution be damned.
“As he should be Onion Knight.” She said, faintly mocking him by using the nickname Ser Davos has acquired during the rebellion. “It is crucial we launch our attack on Kings Landing soon.”
“We will need the men of the Reach to be victorious at Kings Landing my lady.”
The Red Priestess nodded absently. “We do indeed Ser Davos. We do indeed.”
“Another vision from the fires my lady?” He couldn’t resist adding a hint of mockery to the question.
Melisandre looked at him, the corner of her lips turned into something similar to a sneer. “Not at all, good Ser, just common sense.”
They set off at first light. Stannis was true to his word, mounting his horse and urging the small company onwards at yet another punishing pace.
By mid-afternoon they had arrived at the border of the Reach. As expected they were met by a contingent of armoured knights. They were led by a lithe athletic knight who had the rose sigil of House Tyrell emblazoned across his armour. His shield though had two golden roses on a field of green.
A most curious adaptation of the Tyrell rose
. The knight pulled back the visor of his helm, revealing blue eyes and a small, well-kept beard. He greeted the travellers warmly from his saddle.
“Greetings my lords. Welcome to the Reach.”
Stannis merely glared at the knight, his gaze unflinching. For a brief moment no one said anything, the retainers in the Kings group too afraid of offending their sovereign by insulting the knight before them. It was left to Davos to urge his horse forward until he was almost at a level with his King.
“Be careful of your tone Ser,” he rebuked sternly, “you address the rightful King of Westeros.”
The knight smiled thinly, his eyes filled with mirth. “I am afraid the Reach does not recognise Lord Stannis’ claim to the throne.”
“
King
Stannis has the best claim to the throne of anyone in the realm!” This angry cry came from Axell Florent. Stannis’s Hand and former castellan of Dragonstone. “You will apologise Ser!”
The knight looked quizzically at Ser Axell. “Apologise? I merely note that King Robert had three children. All of them come before Lord Stannis in the line of succession.”
Ser Axell’s face went red with rage. “Those abominations are illegitimate – born of incest!”
The knight chuckled lightly. “Yes, we’d heard that particular tale.”
“Do you call your King a liar, Ser?” Ser Axell made to draw his sword.
“As I say,” the knight replied, a note of impatience entering his voice as he looked from Ser Axell to Stannis. “He is not
my
King.”
The Tyrell knights began to stir forwards, sensing a threat of danger to their commander Stannis’ retainers made to do the same, although the two commanders had not moved a muscle since the altercation began. Davos saw they were moments away from violence.
The King doesn’t want that, surely, our mission is one of peace.
“This is unnecessary my lords.” Davos said, keeping his face neutral. “We are here at Lord Tyrell’s invitation for alliance negotiations. I’m sure none of us would want to jeopardize those talks before they’ve even began.”
Not strictly true
. Davos thought ruefully to himself. But the words had the intended effect. A few moments ago the knights had been readying themselves for a fight. Now, an element of uncertainty had been thrust into the group. Both sides looked to their leaders to determine the next move.
The Tyrell knight laughed warmly, he held up a hand to stay the group of knights around him. “How true good Ser. How true. You’re right of course. We should be on our way. Tally any longer and my father will worry where we’ve got to.”
Ser Davos eyed the laughing knight cautiously. He knew the answer but had no choice but to proceed. “Your Father, Ser?”
“I have the honour of being Garlan Tyrell, second son of Lord Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South and Lord of Highgarden.” Garlan bowed his head to Stannis. “As I said, welcome to the Reach.”
We should have expected Lord Tyrell to send his son to meet us. If nothing else, Stannis is highborn, it would require someone of near equal rank to greet us.
Davos rode near to Stannis left flank, Melisandre riding close to his right. The other knights in Stannis’ entourage had fallen back at their Kings command.
He had been surprised to be commanded by the King to attend him as they rode through the open fields. It was hard to be pessimistic this day, the sun was shining and a faint breeze kept them cool as they moved. Davos could not recall a time when he had been so far inland. Being a smuggler by trade he had always kept to the coast line.
Not much need for my skills in land
. Though now he could see that being a smuggler in this area was redundant.
There is so much produce here. Truly the Reach is a gods-blessed country.
In a way, this darkened Davos’ spirts.
With so much, what can we offer the Tyrells that Renly hasn’t already?
Maester Cressen had given the opinion that it was likely that Renly would have married Lord Tyrell’s daughter so as so solidify the alliance.
If that’s true then it will be to Renly direct that we must make our appeal and see if we can get him to thwart his ambitions.
The thought of the aged maester saddened Davos. He had known the man many years and had always respected his views. When Melisandre arrived at Dragonstone it had been Cressen who had been the first to object, saying that her religion has no place among good honest people. This had not made him popular with Stannis’ bannermen. Axell Florent had threatened to throw the old man from Dragonstone’s tallest tower if he didn’t desist in his protestations. The Florents who served Stannis had been the first to go over to the Red Woman’s religion, starting with Selyse Baratheon, Stannis’ rather dour wife. Seeing a change in power within the hierarchy of Dragonstone, many ambitious men had pledged their loyalty to the new religion.
However, these enemies hadn’t deterred the old maester. He had continued to protest Melisandre’s presence and influence on their liege lord. This had only become worse with King Roberts death and Stannis’ decision to declare himself King. Cressen had spoken often, and at length about the fact that the small force at Stannis’ command could not hope to combat the other forces under the other Houses command.
He was a brave man, with the courage to stand up for common sense. I miss him.
Maester Cressen’s death had come as a shock to the household. Not so much the occurrence, the man was old and had been ill for some time. No, the manner of his passing had been the cause of dismay. It had come after a council meeting. Things between Melisandre and Cressen had been reaching a crisis point, with frequent arguments and disagreements on Stannis’ claim and ability to fight the Lannisters. However, after a particular stormy encounter, Cressen had abruptly changed tone and offered a truce with the Red Woman, saying that he served Stannis in all things. The maester had stood and offered his own cup to the priestess who had taken it and drunk.
The next thing anyone knew the maester had collapsed, blood seeping from his body, he was dead before anyone could get to him.
That alone would have been bad enough but Davos had looked at Melisandre’s face as Cressen had been declared dead.
She was smiling at the corpse. Smiling like an adult would when a child tries to hide behind its fingers.
Could Melisandre have poisoned the old man? Davos thought it unlikely, if anything he suspected it was the other way around; that Cressen had tried to poison the priestess.
I could have sworn I saw him pore something in his own drink before he sipped from it.
If he had, then it was clear his efforts had met with tragedy, and not the one the maester was hoping for.
Since the death Melisandre’s standing within the men had only increased. She was said to possess great power. Look at Maester Cressen, a venerable and respected graduate at the citadel. Look how the Lord of Light treats those who would oppose him.
And I don’t believe the Red Woman’s actions ceased with Cressen. What of Courtnay Penrose..
Davos shuddered. No, he would not think of Ser Courtnay, found stabbed to death in his locked chambers at Storm's End.
There was only so much a man could think about at a time before he is driven mad.
The leading Tyrell knights suddenly whirled their mounts and struck north.
“Are we not headed to Bitterbridge?” Ser Axell called to Ser Garlan. Surprise and suspicion was etched on his face.
Garlan, turned in his saddle to address the party. “My apologies, I should have mentioned. My father is no longer at Bitterbridge. When he heard you were coming he struck out with a small escort to Grassy Vale. He thought it better to meet you there, plus it is less distance for you to travel.”
“And Renly?” Davos interjected, “Where is he? Surely we are here to speak to him?”
Garlan smiled at him. “Have no fear Ser Davos, Renly is at Grassy Vale as well. He is the guest of Lord Meadows, the master of Grassfield Keep.”
Day had started to turn into night as the two groups arrived at Grassfield Keep. It was a small castle compared to Storm's End but it would do to house Stannis’ group for the night.
Maybe tonight I can sleep in a proper bed. I’m getting to old to sleep on the ground, makes me feel I’m already dead.
As they approached Davos could see a small army camped by the castle walls, forming an almost comical row of tent between the keep and the village. He doubted the smallfolk of Grassy Vale would be happy to have an army on their doorstep. Davos counted the number of tents silently to himself.
By the Gods there are enough for around a thousand men! Is that what Mace Tyrell considers a small escort?
The party rode through the open gates of Grassfield Keep. A horn announced their arrival and the soldiers in the courtyard and on the castle walls came to attention.
A large figure was striding across the courtyard. He was covered in so much green and was so round that Davos had the ridiculous image of a giant apple. The man was surrounded by bannermen and men-at-arms, all sporting the sigil of House Tyrell.
“Greetings my lords!” The round man boomed, “Welcome to Grassfield Keep.” The man, who could only be Mace Tyrell bowed his head. “Lord Stannis, it has been a long time. It is a pleasure to see you again.”
Davos shot a warning glance at Ser Axell.
I can see the way this is going to go.
But it was Stannis who spoke. “Lord Tyrell. It is customary to kneel before your King.”
Mace Tyrell’s face set at the rebuke. “It is indeed, my lord. And were my King here, I would do so.”
Davos looked quickly around his party. Ser Axell looked like his face may explode, his face was bright red from anger. He looked as if he might say something but Melisandre urged her horse forward and she lay a hand on his arm.
Stannis looked coldly at Mace Tyrell. “I see duty still counts for little in your world Lord Tyrell.”
Lord Tyrell smiled grimly. “Not as little as politeness does in yours,
Lord
Baratheon.”
The two leaders stared at one another. Neither prepared to give ground, the troops on either side shuffled awkwardly not knowing what to do
. I have to say something fast, or the discussions will be over before they have taken place.
“Lord Tyrell,”
At least
his
title is not in doubt
. “Perhaps we could come inside, we have had a long journey and are very tired.”
Mace broke eye contact with Stannis. “Of course, of course. Where are my manners? Please come inside. We have prepared a feast for your arrival.”
“We have no time for your food, Tyrell.” Stannis said curtly. “We are here to talk to my brother and negotiate the return of the Reach into the fold of the Seven Kingdoms.”
Mace Tyrell seemed to chuckle. “As you wish my lord. We will dispense with the food. Do come inside though. It would be ill of us to talk while in the cold and dark.”
He led the way back into the keep.
The group was crowded into a small chamber. Stannis had refused all hospitality of any kind and was still in his riding clothes. For forms sake, his party remained likewise. A large wooden table sat in the centre of the room, on which were goblets of wine, hastily poured when word had reached the servants that Stannis had refused to partake in the feast prepared in the main chambers.
The meeting had been restricted to the principle players on each side. On the Tyrell side sat Lord Mace, his son Garlan and Randyll Tarly. On Stannis’ sat the King, Melisandre, Ser Axell Florent and Davos himself.
Why in the name of the Seven am I here? I have no place among the highlords.
The group moved round the table and sat.
At least now it won’t be so easy to come to blows.
One chair at the table was left empty
. Presumably for Renly, arriving fashionably late. He always did know how to make an entrance.
Mace Tyrell had given the order for the feast to begin without them. “It would look ill if we neglected your men my Lord.” He said smiling. “Our host, Lord Meadows, has gone to considerable trouble to arrange tonight. No use wasting good food.”
Stannis had glared Lord Tyrell at yet another mention of him being a mere Lord. “I seem to remember you wasted none while camped beneath the walls of Storm's End.”
“Ah come now, my lord.” Mace tutted indulgently. “We should not discuss the past. Your brother, good King Robert, pardoned our House for our role in the civil war. And why shouldn’t he? We were only doing our duty to our king.”
“The Mad King, you mean.” Ser Axell’s voice dripped with disdain.
“Well, King Aerys was… eccentric to say the least..” Mace offered.
Ser Axell looked incredulous. “Eccentric! He burnt people alive!”
Mace looked playfully at Ser Axell. “Pray, forgive me, what exactly has the Lady Melisandre been doing recently? Something quite similar if the rumours are true.”
Davos smiled to himself.
Well struck my lord.
Stannis ground his teeth. His hands dug into the armrests of his chair.
He detests mockery, Lord Tyrell needs to watch himself.
The King calmed himself. “Shall we begin our discussions my lord? That is after all, why you invited us here.”
“Well as to that,” Mace looked bemused. “It was not exactly an invitation. We got word that you were headed into our territory and decided it was in all our interests to meet. As for why we haven’t started, we have another guest who is yet to join us. They’re being escorted from the main hall even now.”
Guest? That is an odd way to describe the man you call your King.
At that moment the chamber door opened to reveal a servant. “My lords, may I present Lady Catelyn Stark.”
The Tyrell group rose automatically. Stannis and his party were slower but quickly got to their feet.
Catelyn Stark entered the room, she was wearing lightly embrodied robes of deepest blue.
More southron robes then northern if I had to wager
. The only item that denoted her allegiance was a broach shaped like a trout that adorned her left shoulder.
“My lords.” Lady Catelyn greeted them with a nod and smile. She moved to the empty chair and sat. The men slowly followed suit. Melisandre was the last to take her seat, looking warily at the new arrival.
Stannis turned his head. “Lady Stark, I had not thought to find you here.”
Catelyn smiled slightly. “I had not thought to be here Ser.”
“What the Lannisters did to your husband was a terrible crime. Eddard Stark was no friend to me but I swear they will pay for your husband’s murder.” Stannis stated this declaration calmly but his tone of voice gave no doubt to the listeners of its sincerity.
Catelyn’s smile vanished. “I thank you my lord, but my husband it not dead, only missing.”
“Stupid woman’s gone mad with grief.” Ser Axell whispered in Davos’ ear. “Surely she must know that the Lannisters had him put to death?”
Stannis’ face was a mask. “Forgive me my lady. But we had word that Lord Stark was imprisoned by the Lannisters. From there he seems to have disappeared. It seems likely he was killed quietly in the cells beneath the Red Keep.”
Catelyn nodded. “Likely yes, but untrue. We have heard that he escaped the Red Keep.”
Davos was shocked.
Surely not.
The agreement among Stannis’ advisors was that Lord Stark had been executed. If this wasn’t true, if Lord Eddard had escaped then it was possible that an alliance between Storm's End and Winterfell was possible. Maester Cressen had lamented Lord Stark’s death, even though he had agreed it was likely, for the Warden of the North was renowned for his honourable nature and would certainly have supported Stannis for the crown.
Maybe we could marry Stannis’ daughter, Shireen, to Lord Eddard’s heir to cement an alliance.
Stannis looked thoughtfully at Lady Stark. “But you have had no word from him since?”
Looking grief-stricken Catelyn Stark looked down. “No my lord. We’ve heard nothing of Ned, or my two girl, not for weeks now.” She looked up. “Have you?”
Poor woman. She must know that we have not, up until a moment ago we thought he was dead.
“No,” Stannis said, slowly. “Beyond the letter he wrote me prior to Robert’s death, I have heard nothing.”
Catelyn looked intently at Stannis. “Letter my lord?”
Stannis returned the look before looking at the Tyrells who were watching this conversation with rapt attention. “It was Lord Eddard who confirmed to me that Joffrey and his siblings were not Robert’s children. It was something I had suspected for some time.”
“It was Lord Eddard who said this?” Mace Tyrell said, speaking up. “Lord Eddard himself wrote to you saying the princes and princess were not King Robert’s natural children?”
Stannis set his jaw. “It was.”
The Tyrell looked between themselves. Garlan, leaned over and spoke to his father, his voice a whisper.
Before now they must have thought that Stannis was fabricating the illegitimacy of his brothers children as an excuse to seize the throne. A letter from Lord Eddard confirming this story would add great weight to the claim.
Mace Tyrell nodded to Garlan. He straightened in his chair. “May we see this letter my lord?”
There came a gasp from Axell Florent. Even Davos was shocked. To not take a highlord's word, much less one such as Stannis was unthinkable.
“Do you take me for a liar, Tyrell?” Stannis said, his eyes narrowing.
“Not at all my lord,” Mace said smoothly. “Only that if we could see the allegations with Lord Eddard’s signature…”
“It is not an allegation.” Stannis cut it. “It is fact. Cersei’s Lannisters’ children are bastards. They are not Robert’s children and, as such, have no right to the Iron Throne.”
“How convenient for you.” Randyll Tarly spoke, his voice blunt.
Stannis bristled. “It has nothing to do with convenience. The throne is mine by right, all those that deny that are my foes.”
The Tyrells were silent for a moment. Abruptly Stannis went on.
“Where is my brother?”
“Ah,” Lord Tyrell shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Your brother is currently a guest in one of the upstairs chambers.”
“A guest?” Stannis eyes were like chips of marble. “I thought he was your King.”
“No my lord.” Mace Tyrell said, his voice clear. “The Reach currently serves no King.”
Davos shot a glance at Stannis. As always his face was unreadable. However, from long experience, Davos guessed that is he could laugh, he’d be laughing now.
I don’t blame him, Renly fled to the Reach hoping to raise an army, instead he’s a prisoner of the very people he thought to rule.
Stannis surprised him however. He glared at the Tyrells. “Do you expect me to believe that you have imprisoned my brother on your own initiative?”
Mace squirmed in his seat. “Not imprisoned, my lord, He is our guest.”
Stannis was not placated. “Tell me, can your guest leave if he so chooses?”
“Well….no, not as such.” Mace had started to sweat slightly.
He’s lying
. Davos thought.
What would the Tyrells have to gain by holding Renly captive? Stannis would never ransom him. Indeed if he ever saw his brother again the Kings would likely separate his head from his shoulders.
Stannis had been wroth when he’d landed with his army at Storm's End only to be told by Ser Courtnay Penrose, the castellan of the keep, that the Storm Lords were declaring for Renly who was claiming his right to the throne.
The King had raged at Ser Courtnay, pledging to siege the castle and hang his family as traitors. Ser Courtney had struggled and said that Renly had gone to the Reach to raise a massive host who, even now, would be on their way to relieve them.
However, that night, as Stannis’ army began its siege preparations, Ser Courtnay had been murdered in his chambers. In disarray, the castle had surrendered to Stannis and acknowledged him as King. After a week of no word from the Reach the other Storm Lords decided to side with Stannis as well, convinced that Renly must have been killed on the road. Within the next week Stannis became the undisputed ruler of the Storm Lands.
As he consolidated his forces at Storm's End, Stannis received reports that the Tyrells had amassed a great army at Bitterbridge. Determined to make this army his, Stannis had sent word that he would treat with the Tyrells and had set off to negotiate with his brother.
Now though it looked as if Renly was too craven to face his brother. He was hiding behind the Tyrells.
Surely, Mace Tyrell would have supported Renly’s claim, as spurious as it is? They’d have jumped at the chance of marrying one of their own to a King. Has Renly become unmanned at the thought of facing his older brother? If so he won’t remain a King for long. Men will never follow a coward into battle.
“Why then is she here? If not to negotiate with Renly?” Stannis gestured towards Lady Catelyn.
He has the right of it. What business does the Lady of Winterfell have here except to negotiate with the southron houses?
Mace looked as if he was about to speak but Catelyn cut him off.
“I had hoped to talk with your brother, my lord.” She looked at Stannis defiantly. “But when I arrived at the Reach I discovered your brother was not in command. I was going to leave and go north but then I heard Lord Tyrell was to meet with you and I hoped to negotiate with you.”
“Negotiate what exactly?” Stannis asked.
“Negotiate an alliance between yourself and my son, King Robb.”
“
King
Robb!” The words exploded from Stannis’ mouth. “Your son has declared himself King?!”
Lady Catelyn raised her head to look directly at Stannis. “He has my lord. His men declared him King in the North.”
Davos had never seen Stannis dumbstruck, but he did today. His monarch stood there frozen. Teeth clenched tightly. He glared at them all.
“You dare to stand before me.” His voice blazed with righteous anger. “You dare? I am the lawful King of Westeros! I will not ally with traitors and usurpers.” He looked at Lady Catelyn. “Let your son call himself what he wants, after I am done with the Lannister’s, I will mount his head on a spike.” He looked at the Tyrells, “And as for you, you spineless opportunists, my brother was far too merciful. You should have been hung as traitors and your bodies used as carrion for the crows.”
“No!” He stood, the others around the table quickly did likewise. “I will give you to tomorrow to renounce this foolishness and offer fealty to me. I will accept your word of your sons’ fealty Lady Stark, he is young, if he bends the knee to me he will be forgiven.” Stannis pointed to Mace Tyrell. “You tell Renly that, wherever he is hiding, he is to appear tomorrow and beg my forgiveness. Otherwise he will be executed as a traitor.”
“You would execute your own brother?” Mace Tyrell looked aghast.
“I will hear no more!” Stannis said, his voice cold. “You have my offer. Kneel or be destroyed.”
With that he swept from the room.
Lady Melisandre looked slyly at the Tyrells. “Look to your sins, Lord Tyrell. The night is dark and full of terrors.”
She pulled her red robes up around her and followed the King.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
“Will you tell me a story mama?”
Layla smiled down at her daughter, reaching out to run a hand through her golden hair. Lucy was such a good girl, always well behaved and quiet. She hardly ever asked for anything, which was why she was more than happy to indulge her whenever she did ask. Besides it was hard not to melt when those pretty green eyes stared up at her so beseechingly. Neither she nor Jude were really sure where the green had come from, but both of them found them stunning nonetheless.
“What kind of story princess?” she asked teasingly, though she already knew the answer. Her daughter only ever wanted to hear about one thing.
“A story about the stars mama,” her only child told her solemnly.
“Of course,” Layla assured her daughter, “How about a story about Capricorn today?”
Lucy nodded and snuggled into her side, staring up at her attentively.
“Let’s see, once, back when I was young, just a few years older than you I…”
♈️ ♉️ ♊️ ♋️ ♌️ ♍️ ♎️ ♏️ ♐️ ♑️ ♒️ ♓️
Lucy allowed her mother’s words to wash over her as she paid careful attention to the words of the story. She loved these stories about the stars, her mother and magic. They reminded her of the one true parental figure she’d had in her last life. Sirius had always loved telling her about the stars too, because all his family were named after them. Laying on the roof of Grimmauld Place with Sirius listening to him as he told her stories, was one of the few wonderful memories she had of her previous life.
Between the Dursley’s the trials she’d faced at Hogwarts, the war, and her death at age eighteen happy memories for her from that life were few and far between. Fortunately it seemed that this life was going to be far better than the previous one, which made sense. After all when she’d died and gone to the beyond, Fate and Death had told her this life was supposed to be a reward of sorts. A second chance without a prophecy hanging over her, in a new world, with nothing to remind her of her old memories.
At first she’d actually tried to decline said reward, but Death in particular had been insistent, and had even brought in her parents and Sirius to help convince her that it was alright to do so. Listening to the stories her new mother had been telling her from the time she was born, she liked to think they’d also had a hand in choosing where exactly she ended up. Sirius in particular would’ve approved.
“Mama?” she asked determinedly, as her mother finished her story.
“Hmm?”
“Will I be able to summon the spirits too?” it was something she’d been wondering for a while now. Hearing about this strange new branch of magic was absolutely fascinating. She’d never heard of anything like that before even in her last life. She wasn’t sure how magic in this strange new world worked at all, only that it seemed everyone knew about it, it wasn’t hidden at all like in her last world, and everyone who could use it seemed to be different, and that she still had some of it. She could feel it, the same as it had been before, a comforting warmth that hovered around her. Whether or not that meant she could do what her mother did in the stories she told was something she’d yet to find the answer for.
“Would you like to learn someday Lucy?” her mother asked her, and she could see that despite the seriousness with which she’d asked the question there was a strange sort of wistfulness on her mother’s face, one that she didn’t entirely understand.
“I would,” she answered as firmly as she could despite her young age. She was only six after all, but she’d like to begin as soon as possible, after all it sounded really interesting, and she missed being able to use magic, “It would be nice to have some new friends.”
“Are you lonely Lucy?” Layla asked and Lucy could see the stress and sadness on the older woman’s face. She was taken aback by the question, but thinking it over she could see why she would ask. After all any other six-year-old, one who wasn’t reborn would probably be lonely with only her parents, and the servants for company.
Her seclusion was somewhat necessary because of how rich her parents were. There had been kidnapping attempts before that had led them to be exceedingly overprotective of her. Admittedly none of them had actually gotten close thanks to the diligent, loving servants, but she knew it had frightened her parents to bits.
Up to this point she hadn’t really thought a whole lot about her lack of peers, but if she was honest she was a bit glad for their absence. Sure she had a six-year-old body right now, and sometimes that led to somewhat childish behavior, but never so much that she would be comfortable attempting to play with an actual child as equals. After all she had been considered an adult in the wizarding world when she died, and she’d never actually played with a child before not even when she’d actually been one no thanks to the Dursleys and Dudley.
“No mama,” she assured her mother, wanting to erase the guilt on her face more than she wanted to press to learn magic right away, “I have you and papa and Spetto, and Bero, and Ribbon and Aed.”
Unfortunately her reassurance didn’t actually seem to help, instead her mother looked even more troubled as she ran gentle fingers through Lucy’s hair. She watched as a myriad of expressions seemed to come over her mother’s face, before finally settling on determination.
She squeaked in surprise as her mother lifted her up into her arms, standing up from where they’d been sitting on one of the lavish couches in the family sitting room, and moving swiftly down the hall, and into the library.
Curious she opened her mouth to ask her mother where they were going only to be set carefully on her feet as her mother used her now free hand to knock on the door to the librarian’s personal rooms.
There was a brief shuffling noise and then the door swung open to reveal a short, extremely old man, leaning heavily on a walking stick. He was the only person she knew in this new life who wore a robe, and one of the few in either life who actually wore one of the signature pointed hats of witches and wizards in a florid pink color with a bright yellow heart, the type of combination that would’ve made Dumbledore proud.
He was also extremely familiar to her, one of the handful of servants her parents trusted implicitly. Bero was a kindly old man who was extremely knowledgeable about magic. Unfortunately he tended to ramble off on to tangents whenever she tried to ask questions leading her to be even more confused than before she asked.
“Madam Layla! And little Miss Lucy, what can I do for you this fine afternoon?” he asked his frail, reedy voice cheerful despite its wavering quality.
“Bero,” her mother greeted clear fondness in her voice, “I know you usually are organizing the books this hour, but I was wondering if you had the time to do me a favor.”
“Of course, of course, come on in girls, I was actually just about to make some tea, you’re more than welcome to join me,” he told them gesturing them into the room.
The three of them got settled with Bero providing her several books to sit on to boost her so she could reach the table properly, a use for books that would’ve left Hermione and Madam Pince in hysterics if they’d ever seen it. She would’ve been a bit embarrassed about it if he wasn’t also using a few as a seat himself.
“So what favor were you hoping to ask of me Madam Layla?” Bero asked as they all sipped their tea.
“I was hoping that you might be willing to begin teaching Lucy how to open the Celestial Gates,” Layla informed him bluntly causing Bero to choke on his tea in surprise and Lucy herself to fumble a bit with her cup, spilling a couple droplets on her dress, not that she noticed or cared as she stared hopefully between her mother and Bero.
“Madam Layla are you sure?” Bero asked surprised, “I know you’ve always hoped Lucy will follow in your footsteps and become a Celestial Mage like you, but she’s a bit young still.”
“She asked me today if she could learn,” her mother explained looking half extremely proud and half profoundly sad, “And while I don’t think she should start on anything big yet, she could at least try for a silver key, it may not work right away of course, especially since she’s never used magic before, but with some trying I know she could do it.”
Bero was frowning thoughtfully glancing between her and her mother and she gave him her best pleading stare hope growing in her chest at the idea that she might soon be able to use magic again.
“And besides, Lucy wants to have a companion, a friend, what better friend than a Celestial Spirit?” Layla coaxed.
Bero’s face instantly softened and he nodded, “Alright dears, I can certainly show her how, and we do have a few silver keys around that she can pick from to try.”
“Oh thank you mama! Bero!” she cheered ecstatic, unable to help herself as childish glee mixed with adult relief at being able to use magic again, even if it wasn’t the magic she’d been used to.
“Don’t get too excited just yet missy!” Bero warned her though his face and tone were kind, “First let’s make sure you remember enough from the stories, after all it wouldn’t do to have you jump right in without any knowledge.”
Lucy nodded a bit ruefully, more than willing to be patient. They would get there eventually now that both her mama and Bero had agreed she could try, and besides she’d been burned too many times because she didn’t have the information she needed. She’d learned her lesson there.
“Good girl,” Bero approved with a nod, “Now tell me what you remember about keys.”
“There are several types of keys,” Lucy began racking her brain for what she knew, “and each key opens a gate for a Celestial Spirit to pass from the Spirit Realm to Earthland. There are eighty-eight different types of keys in all, based on the eighty-eight constellations. The first and lowest tier keys are the silver keys, while they’re the lowest tier, they’re also the most varied type of key both in the power it takes to open their gates and in what the Celestial Spirit whose gate the key opens, can do.”
“They’re also the most common type of key with several copies of the same key for most of the gates, though some keys are rarer than others,” she kept going warming to her subject, realizing that from her mother’s stories she actually knew far more than she’d thought she did, “the next tier of keys are the golden keys, there are twelve of the regular gold keys which link to the zodiac constellations, and one black gold key which links to the constellation Ophiucus. These are far rarer than the silver keys with only one known key for each zodiac in existence.”
“Finally there are the legendary crystal keys,” she breathed excited just thinking about them, “These keys as implied in the name are only known in legend, and no one in living memory has found or wielded one successfully because they need so much magic from the Celestial Mage to open the gate and power the spirit.”
“Very good, very good,” Bero cheered as she finished her explanation, and she blushed, embarrassed and pleased at her mother and Bero’s proud smiles.
“Now what we haven’t told you yet is that when a Celestial Mage first calls a Spirit with their key, a contract has to be made,” Bero lectured, his reedy voice surprisingly firm, “This is a contract that tells you when the Spirit allows you to call on them, and what they’re willing to do when you call. Not all spirits like to fight after all, and others only like to fight!”
“These contracts are very important Lucy,” her mother took over gently but firmly her eyes very serious, “They’re a promise between Mage and Spirit, one that must never, ever be broken, you cannot forget a single part of that contract, not ever Lucy, this is the most important part of being a Celestial Mage.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Bero agreed, “Unlike other types of mage we work with living creatures, who have thoughts, feelings, and desires of their own. Therefore there are three rules that I set down for every Celestial Mage I train.”
“First, spirits are friends, they aren’t tools or toys,” he told her firmly, raising a finger, “Second our keys are a physical manifestation of our bond to our spirits and are never to be disrespected. And finally, and most importantly…”
“A Celestial Mage never breaks a promise,”
her mother and Bero intoned together, though Bero added, “Be that through a contract or through spoken words.”
“Normally I wouldn’t allow you to do this, this young, because most children your age wouldn’t understand the severity of breaking promises, losing the trust and loyalty of the spirits can have dreadful consequences, but you’re a very mature girl, you always have been. Do you understand Lucy?” her mother asked gently, running her fingers through her hair.
Lucy nodded solemnly. The last rule sounded like it worked very much the same way as magical vows and contracts worked, especially with the vaguely ominious ‘dreadful consequences’. After all magic in her last life did not take oath breakers by written or spoken word lightly and nearly always earned themselves lethal and extraordinarily painful retribution of some kind depending on the severity of the broken oath.
“I understand mama, Bero, I’ll be very careful and treat my new friend right,” she assured them gravely.
“Good girl,” Bero affirmed patting her leg gently, “Now since you already know most of what you need to know, all that’s left is to show you how to open a Celestial gate.”
He hopped carefully down from his seat and moved into a more open part of the room instructing, “Pay careful attention now Lucy, the magic to open Celestial gates is all the same, the only difference is the key you use and the amount of magic it takes to both open the gate and keep it open.”
Lucy nodded as the elderly man produced a key from the folds of his robe and turned to the side, he held the key out as if reaching for a door, and turned the key as if unlocking it intoning the words, “Gate of the Southern Cross, I open thee Crux!”
There was a whoosh and a sound that reminded her of the ringing of a doorbell, and a strange spirit appeared in a shower of sparkles. He was floating cross-legged in midair, with his hands on his knees, humanoid in shape, with an old man’s knobby knees and elbows, except for his head which was an enormous silver cross that looked far too big for his body. The cross had intricate gold designs on it, and there was a face at the center, with the features of an old man and a strangely shaped mustache whose handlebars were shaped like crosses.
“You called Bero?” the old spirit asked in a voice very similar to Bero’s own.
“Yes Crux my old friend,” the mage greeted with a cheery smile, “I wanted to introduce you to our newest Celestial mage to be, Lucy Heartfilia. She’ll be getting her first key today and I wanted to show her how it was done, and was hoping you’d explain what you do to her so she can get an idea of some of the varied powers of silver keys.”
The spirit turned his gaze on her and smiled floating over to where she sat. She immediately hopped off her chair and curtsied politely the way her mother had taught her to do when father’s important business associates came around.
“Hello child, such a polite little girl, and Heartfilia, that must make you Layla’s daughter,” the spirit greeted kindly, “You look just like her.”
“Yes sir, that’s my mama,” she agreed casting a glance back at her mother who was smiling proudly.
“No need for sir, I’m too old and crusty for formalities, just call me Crux,” the spirit told her with a laugh, “And Layla dear, it’s wonderful to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you too old friend,” her mother agreed walking forward to hug the spirit who embraced her in return.
“How are you dear?” Crux asked gently his voice kind and concerned.
“Doing well,” Layla agreed though not without a meaningful glance in her direction, one that made her frown in confusion and concern even as Crux nodded his understanding.
“Good, good,” the spirit replied cheerfully before turning back to Lucy, “Now, let’s see Bero wanted me to explain my contract to you hmm?”
He stroked his mustache carefully as he explained, “I am a keeper of knowledge for the Celestial Realm, there’s very little I don’t know or can’t find out. I use a branch of magic called archive, that lets me search for almost anything. The only limits to the information I can offer my summoner are the limits imposed by the Spirits themselves. It wouldn’t do to reveal personal information after all, that would be cruel, and I cannot tell you where to find keys either.”
“That’s really neat!” Lucy told him as she thought it over, a little awed at the power of this particular spirit. After all if there was one thing Hermione had taught her in all their years of friendship it was that knowledge was a power all its own, “You must know all kinds of interesting things.”
“Indeed I do,” the spirit agreed, clearly flattered as he patted her head, “So is there anything I can help you with before I go?”
“I could use your help identifying some keys before you go,” Bero spoke up reaching into his robes and pulling out a ring with three silver keys dangling from it.
“I see, let me take a look,” Crux offered with a grin floating over and examining the keys closely, before nodding to himself then slumping over, soft snores leaving his mouth.
“He fell asleep!” Lucy yelped in surprise.
Both her mother and Bero erupted into amused laughs, and Lucy turned to look at them completely baffled.
“I’d forgotten how amusing it is when someone sees Crux in action for the first time,” Bero chuckled.
“He’s not asleep Lucy dear, that’s just how he looks and sounds when he uses his archive magic,” her mother explained with a grin.
“I’ve got it!” Crux announced, popping up from his slump like a jack in the box and making her squeak in shock at his sudden enervation.
The spirit held his hand out for the keys that Bero gladly handed over, sifting through them carefully he told them, “This one is The Gate of The Dove, Columba, this is The Gate of the Little Horse, Equus, and finally The Gate of the Great Dog Canis Major.”
“Excellent, thank you Crux,” Bero told the spirit a pleased grin on his face as he accepted the keys back, “Well Miss Lucy? What do you think? Any one of them would be an excellent first friend.”
“For me?” she echoed caught off guard.
“That’s right,” Bero told her with an encouraging smile, “Your first silver key, it’ll be my gift to you, so which one would you like?”
Lucy stared at the keys thoughtfully. Bero was right, each could make a good first choice for her, she was sure any little girl would be pleased to have a pony as a friend, doves were beautiful and with the potential for flight, and dogs were wonderful loyal companions. However there was only one choice for her.
“This one,” she told Bero without hesitation, accepting the key from his hand.
“That one? Are you sure Miss Lucy?” Bero asked clearly surprised.
“I’m sure,” she assured him, palming the key, it was surprisingly warm in her hands. She held it up to her face and examined the silver key, the bow was shaped like a dog’s paw, with the constellation Canis Major engraved into the center footpad and the blade was a series of sharp points obviously meant to represent fangs.
Canis Major, the Great Dog, her fingers closed around it with a fierce sense of joy, and anticipation, Canis Major, the constellation to contain the dog star Sirius, a fitting tribute to the godfather who’d loved her in her first life.
“Alright then, if you’ve made your choice then all that’s left is to try opening the gate,” Bero prompted eagerly, “Just do what I did before.”
She nodded eagerly, taking a firm stance and clutching her key in her hand she brandished it as if she was going to open the door, twisting she called, “Gate of the Great Dog, I open thee, Canis Major!”
It seemed the world was holding its breath in that moment one second, two, three… and nothing.
She looked up at the three others in the room confused and a bit panicked. Could she not do it? Did she not have magic after all? She was sure she’d felt it under her skin before. She wasn’t sure what she would do without it. Sure she knew how to survive without, she’d lived as a muggle for years, but it would be like some enormous part of her was missing, as if she were broken.
Heart beating wildly in anxiety she glanced at the three faces in the room, who were all watching her. The gentle amusement on their faces released some of her tension, “Um what did I do wrong?”
“Lucy dear It’s not your fault, that’s why we said it would probably take a while,” her mother assured her obviously holding back a smile, “You haven’t connected with your magic power yet, that could take some time, and even when you do get there it might take a while to get up enough power to open the gate and sustain it.”
“So it’s because I didn’t use any magic when I tried to open the gate?” she asked hopefully.
“That’s right child,” Crux reassured her and she let out a sigh of relief. She had magic after all, she just hadn’t tapped into it when she did the spell. That made sense, after all you could wave a wand and say all the incantations you wanted but without tapping into your magic it, it was the equivalent of waving around a stick and shouting nonsense words, in other words totally useless.
“Okay. I understand!” she told them with a grin. She could do this, she just had to tap into her magic right?
♈️ ♉️ ♊️ ♋️ ♌️ ♍️ ♎️ ♏️ ♐️ ♑️ ♒️ ♓️
Crux watched the little girl with amusement as she went to try again. Such a sweet determined child, as to be expected from Layla’s daughter and the Heartfilia line. He was a little confused that they were starting her so young, why he remembered Layla’s training all those years ago and she didn’t even begin until she was fifteen. As it was he really doubted she’d be able to open the gate for several years yet, especially since of the keys she’d been offered she’d chosen the most magic extensive one.
Canis Major only had the one key, one of the few silver ones that did.
Still he was grateful to be witnessing this moment, the first attempts at summoning a Celestial Spirit. It was a defining moment for any Celestial Mage and he was always proud when he got the chance to be a part of it.
He watched as the young girl focused on the key in her hand, her eyes locked on the glinting metal, her small face scrunched up in concentration. She appeared to be taking the summoning very seriously, a rare trait for a child as young as she was. Still the Heartfilia’s had always been exceptional, as the first ones to contract with the Celestial Realm it made sense that they, of all Celestial Mages would be some of the best. The only reason Layla hadn’t become a famous Mage in her own right was because of her illness.
It had been a tragedy to find out the newest Heartfilia wouldn’t be able to remain a true Celestial Mage, and the spirits had all mourned the loss of her talent. Frankly there had been whispers of fear that Layla’s tragic illness might be the end of the Heartfilia line of Celestial Mages.
He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice at first, and it was only Layla’s quiet gasp of shock that he finally cottoned on to the slow building of power in the room that made the air seem thick and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Small bursts of wind began to move through the air ruffling his clothing, and making loose papers float off the ground as the magic built higher and higher, and hints of gold and bright blue light began to manifest as an enormous magical circle beneath her feet, bathing her from below like a strange spotlight and making her appear almost otherworldly.
Crux gaped as the intensity of the magic continued to rise as the little girl brandished her new key in front of her, her voice, though young and high in pitch ringing with authority and echoing through time and space as she turned the key and called, “Gate of The Great Dog, I open thee Canis Major!”
There familiar sound of a doorbell ringing echoed through the room along with a howl of triumph as an enormous dog manifested in a shower of golden sparks. The power levels in the room began to fade leaving behind the one who’d been called. Compared to the little girl who’d called him the dog was absolutely monstrous in size, twice her height at the shoulder, with massive jaws and a dense fur coat that made it seem even bigger than it was it looked like it could swallow the girl in one bite.
“Hello!” she greeted, and Crux had to admire her utter fearlessness as she stared up at the dog, not the least bit intimidated despite her own rather small size, “My name is Lucy Heartfilia, would you like to be my friend?”
Canis let out an enormous rumbling bark that seemed to shake the entire room, Crux grumbled to himself and rubbed at his poor ears, these young ones, always making such a fuss!
“Thank you!” Lucy cheered, apparently more than able to hear the affirmative despite the deafening sound, “When would you like to be called?”
Crux watched as the two worked out a contract, apparently Canis Major didn’t care when he was called, or for what. By the end of their terms somehow Canis Major had agreed to be called Padfoot, and the two of them were happily running around the room chasing and playing with each other, Lucy’s happy giggles and squeals and Canis Major’s playful barks filling the room with noise.
Glancing at his own summoner he saw Bero watching the pair with amazement and fondness, while Layla was looking at her daughter with unabashed, fierce pride. Looking at the pair Crux couldn’t help but smile. This newest Celestial Mage was already off to a fantastic start, he couldn’t wait to see where she would go from here. Her potential, especially since she’d started so young was practically limitless.
This in mind he sent a respectful nod to Bero, waved at Layla and allowed himself to fade back to the Celestial Realm. There he made his way to the palace eager to share the gossip, the news of the newest Celestial Mage, Lucy Heartfilia.
♈️ ♉️ ♊️ ♋️ ♌️ ♍️ ♎️ ♏️ ♐️ ♑️ ♒️ ♓️
Layla watched in contentment as her daughter ran around the extensive grounds with Canis Major, dubbed Padfoot by her precocious child, laughing, playing, and just acting like the child she was. For the longest time she’d been worried about Lucy.
As a baby she’d almost never cried, a quiet observant child, it had become obvious as she grew that Lucy was a prodigy of sorts. Jude had been positively thrilled at how precocious their daughter was, and was all set to try to start her in on learning, to get her tested and start pushing to see what the bounds of her intelligence were.
Layla however had immediately put her foot down. Lucy was a child, and so long as she didn’t ask or seem to bored or upset she wasn’t willing to push her and potentially take her childhood away from her. Jude had tried to argue for a while, but Layla had been firm in her position.
Despite her hopes though it seemed between her own serious nature and the numerous kidnapping attempts it had seemed like her daughter was never going to have the joyous childhood that Layla wanted for her. That was until that day when Lucy had expressed an interest in being a Celestial Mage like her.
Part of her compromise with Jude when it came to Lucy’s intelligence was that if she ever showed more than a passing interest in a subject it would be pursued, that in combination with her own quiet hopes that Lucy would continue on the Heartfilia legacy of Celestial Mages meant she’d leapt on the chance, and it seemed her daughter had picked an area where she would truly shine.
She hadn’t realized just how closely Lucy had been paying attention to the stories she’d been telling her since she was a baby until they’d begun trying to teach her everything she might need to know about Celestial magic after her unprecedented successful contract with Canis Major. Her baby had picked up and remembered even some of the smallest details of those stories, and was an eager student, soaking up everything she and Bero could teach her like a sponge.
These days, almost two years after Lucy’s first attempt at Celestial magic it wasn’t unusual to find her daughter curled up with a book, or interrogating Bero, or even Crux about magic. Normally this might have worried her, but when she wasn’t with Bero and Crux, or begging stories from Layla herself she was out with Padfoot, getting into mischief, running around, exploring, and acting more like a little girl than she had at any time during her first six years of life.
Padfoot, much to Jude’s well-hidden ire, had become a bit of a staple at their home. It had started with Lucy calling him for just half an hour a day, as that was as long as Lucy could hold the gate open. This was impressive in and of itself as Lucy had only been six at the time and by normal children’s standards shouldn’t have even been able to open the gate to a key as magic intensive as Canis Major was.
However it was obvious from the beginning that Lucy and Padfoot had a special kind of bond, and her little girl had gone out of her way to summon the dog spirit whenever possible. Slowly but surely a half an hour had become an hour, then two and three, by now Lucy could actually hold Canis Major’s gate open for a full twenty-four hours, and she was becoming more powerful by the day.
In addition with Lucy’s rising powers Padfoot had also gotten some additional abilities. He’d learned to talk, though he still preferred to bark, as that way only Lucy and Layla could really understand what he was saying, and he’d also gotten very good at sneaking around, likely from all their games of hide and seek. At times the enormous black dog seemed to meld and disappear into the shadows. More than once the pair had almost given her poor husband and the servants heart attacks as they seemed to appear out of nowhere. Despite this bit of mischief Layla couldn’t really bring herself to scold the pair, too relieved to see them running around having fun to risk it.
Padfoot’s constant presence also gave them a bit of relief when it came to protecting Lucy from potential kidnappers. Her daughter never went anywhere without Padfoot himself or his key, which meant help was always at hand. Padfoot had proven himself viciously protective of her little girl, and had actually foiled three kidnapping attempts by himself already.
One of the potential kidnappers had actually run screaming out of their house instead of attempting to take her daughter. Not that she could blame them. Padfoot was absolutely huge, with the looks and build of a dog Padfoot had claimed was called a Caucasian Ovcharka, but twice the normal size he was actually big enough that she as an adult could probably ride him comfortably, something her daughter took advantage of all the time.
The two of them were inseparable best friends, and despite her husbands misgivings at times, Layla knew giving that key to her baby that day was the best decision she could’ve made. She couldn’t wait to see where she would go from here on out.
♈️ ♉️ ♊️ ♋️ ♌️ ♍️ ♎️ ♏️ ♐️ ♑️ ♒️ ♓️
Lucy let out a relieved sigh as she entered her room hurriedly kicking off her shoes and wriggling her way out of the pink party dress her mother had insisted she wear and pulling the pins from her hair as quickly as she could wincing as they pulled at her scalp and gently massaging her fingers over her head trying to relieve some of the ache.
Today was her eighth birthday and her father had decided she was old enough for a formal party. It had been one of the most painful experiences of this life, playing nice with her father’s business associates and their snobbish children, all of whom had eyes on her and were just waiting for her to put a toe out of line so they could tear her to verbal shreds behind her back. It was like swimming in a pond of bloodthirsty, starving, piranhas just waiting for the first hint of blood.
Luckily she’d had her mother there to help shield her from some of the guests, and Padfoot, who had managed to merge himself quietly with her shadows so he could accompany her yet pass unnoticed by the guests who no doubt would’ve thrown a fit over his presence. Her past experience with politics in the year after the war before she’d died, and the gentle coaching she’d been receiving from her mother and the servants since the time she could walk in this life had stood her in good stead.
As far as she could tell she’d managed without any major social faux pas and comported herself appropriately. Still it was a relief to be away from it all finally. She’d been kept far later than most of the other children her age simply because as the hostess it was her duty to say goodbye to the guests. By the time she’d finally been allowed to retreat it was only her father’s business associates left, lingering to speak with one another about an upcoming trade agreement.
Pulling on the nightdress the maid had left out for her she flicked the lights off and plopped on to her large comfortable bed, only moving a bit so she could cuddle up to Padfoot’s side as he crawled out of her shadow and up on to the bed, throwing her arms around his shaggy neck and burying her face in his ruff.
Padfoot huffed in amusement, but allowed it, there wasn’t much the canine spirit and her best friend in this new life wouldn’t allow her, and she was eternally grateful for his never-ending patience with her.
“I’m never, ever doing that ever again,” she groaned to him miserably.
“You did well princess,” he told her in a soft grumbling bark, careful to keep his voice down, knowing it was late. Not bothering to point out to her that as the Heartfilia Heiress this was likely only the first of many such events in her future, for which she was grateful. She didn’t want to think about that just now.
“Thanks Padfoot,” she replied rolling off him so her back was on the bed and she was looking up at her ceiling. A smile curled her lips as she caught sight of it. The ceiling was one of her gifts last year from her parents, painted to look like a starry night sky embedded at the very center were several lacrima that when the main lights were out let off gentle silver light in the shape of Canis Major. Looking at it never failed to make her smile.
The sound of a door opening had her sitting up in surprise. Unlike her parents she didn’t have a personal servant, not because both parents didn’t think she needed one, both thought she did despite the fact that she insisted she could take care of herself and her rooms just fine. The lack of servant however meant that no one should be coming into her bedroom.
A quick glance at Padfoot showed that he too was glancing in the direction of the door, but considering he looked completely and utterly relaxed she figured there was no threat. She was proved correct when the shadowy figure by the entrance to her door moved closer and she could see the face of her visitor.
“That was quick,” her mother told her with an amused smile as she gently took a seat on the edge of the large bed, “I wasn’t expecting you to already have the lights out for bed. Are you tired dear?”
“A bit,” she admitted crawling over to where her mother was sitting and taking a seat next to you, “it was a long and exciting day, so even though it’s a bit early I thought I’d go to bed, that and I wanted to admire my ceiling for a while.”
“Exciting, but not all that enjoyable right dear?” she asked sympathetically, gently running her fingers through Lucy’s wavy blonde hair.
Lucy hesitated, not wanting to complain or seem ungrateful. Especially since she had received some incredibly expensive presents today. Most of it had been toys, dresses, and jewelry nothing she particularly wanted or cared for, but there had been a couple small magical items she’d thought were neat.
“It’s alright dear, it was more of a business party than a proper party for a little girl,” her mother assured her, and Lucy could detect the hint of disapproval in her tone that told her it had been entirely her father’s idea.
“Anyway, I came to see you because I didn’t dare give you your present earlier when you were opening your gifts from the guests, for fear you’d get too caught up in it but I wanted you to open it when it was still your birthday” her mother told her rummaging in the folds of her elaborate dress for a moment before removing a small neatly wrapped box with a pretty green ribbon on it.
Lucy accepted the gift eagerly curious about what her mother thought would be so intriguing to her that she’d ignore the rest of the presents from the other guests. Carefully undoing the ribbon and setting it aside, she peeled open the paper, revealing a thin rectangular jewelry box.
Slowly opening the lid, intent on savoring the gift she caught a glint of metal, and couldn’t help herself and flung the lid open, gasping in shock and delight. There resting on a small velvet pillow was a golden key. With shaking fingers she lifted the golden key from the box. The bow was engraved with a familiar crest, and was an elaborate filigree design, and the end of the blade was shaped like a heart.
“It’s one of the zodiac keys,” she breathed reverently, feeling the bed shift as Padfoot stood and plodded over to take a look.
“Do you know which one?” her mother prompted her, gentle and amused.
“Gate of the Maiden, Virgo!” she identified easily recognizing the familiar constellation.
“Are you really giving this to me?” she asked clutching the key close and staring up at her mother with awe.
“I am,” her mother assured her tenderly, “You have more than enough power to open it now, and I think Virgo will be a wonderful companion for you.”
“Oh thank you mama!” she cried, ecstatic wrapping her arms around her mother in an enthusiastic hug. Honestly she hadn’t given too much thought to more keys because she was more than happy with just Padfoot, but the idea of having another friend was an appealing one.
“You’re welcome,” her mother told her hugging her back just as tightly pressing a kiss to her hair, “Happy birthday my love.”
♈️ ♉️ ♊️ ♋️ ♌️ ♍️ ♎️ ♏️ ♐️ ♑️ ♒️ ♓️
Even though she’d decided to wait to try summoning Virgo her mother had ended up staying a while longer, kicking off her shoes and joining Lucy on the bed cuddling close, and telling her and Padfoot stories about the stars with Padfoot occasionally chiming in with commentary and funny anecdotes about the constellations that he knew personally. They’d talked well into the night until Lucy hadn’t been able to keep her eyes open, and then her mother had kissed her goodnight, and left her to cuddle next to Padfoot as she drifted off to sleep. Despite the awful party and the long day she counted it as one of the best birthdays she’d ever had.
The next day she woke around noon, having been awake extremely late the night before, and was just barely in time to join her amused parents for lunch. Padfoot had dismissed himself sometime in the night, leaving her with full magic stores, more than ready to summon Virgo. She’d barely been able to get anything down she’d been so excited to summon her new spirit.
Her father had wanted her to immediately start on thank you letters for the guests who’d attended the party and given her gifts, but her mother had luckily persuaded him that it could wait until tomorrow. Thus the moment she’d finished lunch her mother had guided her back to Bero so the two of them could watch while she summoned Virgo for the first time. Both of them had asked at different points if her father would like to join them and see too, but he’d waved them off, explaining that he unfortunately had a meeting to attend.
A little disappointed, but not enough to bring down her excitement seeing as her father was rarely around anyway she practically bounced as she waited for the adults to give her the go ahead to try.
“Alright Lucy,” Bero told her clear amusement in his tone, “All my important papers have been put away, and there’s nothing breakable around, so go ahead whenever you’re ready.”
Lucy flushed a bit, more than once when she was summoning Padfoot she’d been too close to Bero’s notes and sent them all flying forcing them to spend an hour or so cleaning them up and reorganizing them each time.
“Okay, here I go,” she warned them, turning away and concentrating on the task at hand. All the practice she’d had in the last two years meant that she was much better now at reaching her magic and it only took her a second to reach for it and pull it forth channeling it through the key as she called, “Gate of the Maiden, I open thee. Virgo!”
The familiar ring of a successful summon filled the room and the Celestial spirit appeared in a wave of gold and pink light. Looking her over Lucy noted she looked to be in her late teens to early twenties, not that what they looked like really mattered with spirits, most of whom were thousands of years old.
She had short pink hair, vibrant blue eyes, and was wearing a maid outfit complete with ruffled white head piece, white stockings and Maryjane shoes. Her strangest accessory was the heavy manacles around her wrists with dangling chains, one that made her appear a bit odd, but overall she looked kind.
“Greetings mistress,” Virgo told her with a polite bow, “How may I be of service?”
“There’s no need to call me mistress,” Lucy told her hurriedly, the title making her extremely uncomfortable, reminding her far too much of Voldemort, “My name’s Lucy, Virgo and I’d like to be your friend.”
“It’s nice to meet you princess,” Virgo replied calmly, and though she wasn’t exactly comfortable with that title either she couldn’t exactly protest, not when that was exactly what Padfoot called her.
“It’s nice to meet you too Virgo, would you like to make a contract with me?” she offered holding out her hand to shake.
“I would be honored princess,” Virgo told her grasping her hand with both of hers and not letting go.
“Okay then when are you available?” she asked making sure she was ready to remember everything because she wouldn’t be able to take notes with Virgo seemingly unwilling to let go.
“I will answer your call at any time princess,” the maid-like spirit assured her fervently.
“Are you sure?” Lucy double checked surprised and a little worried, “I don’t want to impose on you.”
“Serving my mistress is never an imposition,” Virgo assured her vehemently.
“But Virgo I don’t want to be your mistress I want to be your friend, and please don’t call me that,” Lucy pleaded. This encounter was starting to remind her of something, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
“Of course princess, my apologies,” Virgo told her immediately, “should I be punished?”
“No! No of course not Virgo I would never punish you for a simple mistake,” Lucy assured the spirit anxiously, the situation becoming more and more familiar with every word.
“Okay, so what would you like to be called for?” she tried again, “I know some spirits like to battle and some don’t, others like to perform certain tasks or use special abilities, so what would you like Virgo?”
“Call me for anything princess and I will answer,” Virgo assured her a slightly manic light in her eyes, “I live to serve.”
Seeing that light in her eyes it clicked for her where she’d seen this kind of behavior before. Virgo was acting just like Dobby had. She was acting like a house elf! Hell she’d even asked about punishment the same way a house elf might.
The fact that she would act that way was a little unnerving for her, but at the same time it was also a bit reassuring. She knew how to handle house elves after all. She’d just have to be extremely clear, firm, and careful with Virgo. She could do this.
“Okay I can call you for anything,” she agreed with a gentle smile, it was always best to not let a house elf see any sign of distress on your face and for now she was going to assume Virgo was the same, “But is there anything in particular you
like
to do?”
“I dig tunnels princess,” the spirit told her immediately, “And am somewhat gifted in combat and fully trained as a lady’s maid.”
“Well that will be useful then,” Lucy responded brightly, “My parents have both said that I’ll be in need of a maid soon to help me out in the mornings and evenings. If it’s alright with you I’ll summon you specifically at those times for help, and if I ever have need of help in between I won’t hesitate to call, is that agreeable to you?”
“Of course princess,” Virgo told her in the same devoted tone she’d been using since the beginning of their encounter, but this time she could see a hint of a smile on the spirit’s lips so she counted it as a job well done.
♈️ ♉️ ♊️ ♋️ ♌️ ♍️ ♎️ ♏️ ♐️ ♑️ ♒️ ♓️
Virgo hummed happily to herself as she carefully pinned one of her newest designs around her beloved princess to get the best fit she possibly could. Honestly she hadn’t been sure what to think when she suddenly found her key in the hands of a young child. She’d at first wondered if she had perhaps angered her previous Master enough to have him get rid of her, until the child had introduced herself.
Lucy Heartfilia, Layla Heartfilia’s daughter and only child. Suddenly it made sense why her old Master would have handed her over. Everyone in the spirit world knew of the Heartfilia, how could they not when the Heartfilia had been the first to ever contract with them. However since then the power and ability of the Heartfilia line had slowly but surely been waning and the spirits had despaired. While there were now other Celestial Spirit summoners out there, all far off branches of the original Heartfilia line, to lose the main branch would still have been a tragedy.
Hopes had risen with Layla Heartfilia who, for the first time in centuries had not only been able to contract three of the zodiac spirits, but who’d been able to hold and sustain all three gates at once. However then she’d fallen ill and hopes had fallen when she gave up her keys to trusted comrades retiring to raise her family.
There had been some quiet whispers about Layla’s daughter in recent years, but Virgo had hardly paid them any attention. After all best not to get ones hopes up, only to have them crushed again. Besides if anyone was going to contract with the newest Heartfilia, it would be the same three zodiac as before.
Thus she had been more than a little shocked to find herself contracted to Lucy Heartfilia as her first and only zodiac key and her second key overall at the tender age of eight. She could hardly believe her luck. Lucy was an extremely kind and loving mistress and extraordinarily considerate of her spirits.
They’d had a couple bumps at first, mostly because it had taken some time for Virgo to realize her mistress wanted her to be more outspoken about herself and her wants and needs, but they’d eventually gotten through those.
The only other problem they’d had was between her and Canis Major, her only other key and first official companion. The two of them had butted heads on more than one occasion vying for her mistress’ attention. However they’d quickly noticed that their spats were upsetting to the young princess and so had quickly worked out a truce of sorts. It helped that now, six months in Lucy could call out both of them at the same time, an extremely impressive feat considering her young age.
She hummed happily to herself as she stepped back and admired her handiwork. Her young mistress was so cute, and so kind for allowing her the liberty of dressing her person. She had even consented on more than one occasion to wear some of Virgo’s own designs, had at times even requested them! Never had she been so flattered, she’d nearly fainted from the sheer joy of it.
Nodding in approval she stepped forward and carefully removed the garment from her young mistress, taking extra care not to poke her with the pins, “It will be ready for you by tomorrow.”
“Thanks Virgo,” her young mistress told her with a sweet smile, “I really appreciate you doing this for me so last minute. I really should have probably allowed the tailor to do it, but she kept purposefully pricking me with the pins every time I fidgeted and I couldn’t stand her attitude.”
“Of course princess, anytime,” Virgo assured her calmly though inside she was seething, how dare anyone purposely bring pain to her mistress? Glancing over at the dog spirit she saw he had raised his head and was looking straight at her.
She raised an accusing brow at him, because no doubt he had been present during the meeting with said tailor, he was hardly ever separated from her side, thus it had been his responsibility to protect their mistress. The spirit gave her the doggy equivalent of a smirk and a wink outside of their mistress’ sight and she settled. Clearly the other spirit had exacted retribution of some sort for now, so for now she would be satisfied. However if she ever met said tailor she would be sure to express her displeasure with her.
“If that is all princess I will take this and get it finished?” she inquired, reluctant to leave her side but knowing it was necessary in order to get the dress done for tomorrow.
“Of course, thank you again Virgo,” her princess told her sweetly. Her mistress was so good, so kind.
“My pleasure princess,” she bowed and let herself disappear into the spirit world.
Returning was a bit of a trial these days, not only because she would prefer to remain by the side of her mistress, but because word of her new contract to the young Heartfilia heiress had gotten out, and lately every time she returned home other spirits bombarded her, asking her all sorts of questions.
This time however it seemed she was in luck. No one was lurking around her usual area and she could get to work immediately on the dress. Humming happily to herself, she took a seat and pulled out a needle and thread to begin her work only to feel a chill go down her back.
She stiffened in surprise and glanced around warily. There were very few spirits in the Celestial Realm who could give her that feeling, especially these days with her key in the hands of a Celestial Spirit Mage whose extraordinary power was growing stronger every day, and in turn increasing her own power.
Listing them out she thought maybe a small handful of the other zodiacs who had older more experienced summoners, the Celestial Spirit King himself, and of course
them
the ones who held the crystal keys. However considering they hadn’t been seen now for over a century even inside the Celestial Realm…
She lost her train of thought as she caught sight of her visitor, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of him, his gaze glowing ominously in the darkness despite the light cast by the Celestial lacrima around. Only her sharp reflexes kept her mistress’ dress from falling to the ground as she gaped at him. This hadn’t been what she had expected not at all.
“Virgo, tell me about your mistress,” he ordered, his voice like thunder.
Well, that certainly explained why there weren’t other spirits around, she noted wryly as she stared up at him. He’d scared them all off.
“What do you want to know?”
♈️ ♉️ ♊️ ♋️ ♌️ ♍️ ♎️ ♏️ ♐️ ♑️ ♒️ ♓️
Lucy slowly came back to consciousness in waves. Her head ached fiercely and her eyelids felt impossibly heavy. She groaned her hand coming up to cradle her head as she attempted to push herself into a sitting position. Her stomach lurched uncomfortably at the movement, but she managed to hold back her nausea as she blinked groggily at her surroundings trying to figure out where she was.
It was immediately apparent that she wasn’t anywhere she recognized and likely wasn’t on Heartfilia grounds anymore. She was in some kind of cell, from the dampness in the air and the packed dirt under her likely one underground.
Glancing down at herself she noted she was still in the party dress Virgo had made for her, with its white bodice, full ruffled pink skirt, and pink roses at the collar. It was dirty now though, stained with dirt, and torn like it had caught on something. She’d also apparently lost one of her silk gloves at some point and both of her low heeled pink shoes. The only accessory it seemed she’d managed to keep was the small tiara in her hair, not that, that was surprising considering between the two of them she and Virgo had all but superglued the thing to her hair, Virgo murmuring something strange about crabs the entire time.
A clanking sound, the sound of her door unlocking brought her back to the situation at hand and she hurriedly reached for the secret pocket that Virgo sewed into all her dresses to safely store her key ring as the door swung open only to find they were gone. The pocket was empty.
“Looking for these?” a smug male voice asked and she glanced up, wincing slightly against the glare of light to see a hand holding out her keyring, with Virgo and Padfoot’s keys clearly visible on the ring and jingling them at her tauntingly.
She snarled at him and lunged, diving for the keys… She coughed in agony and surprise as a knee caught her in the chest and sent her hurtling back against the wall of her cell, where she slumped, wheezing as she tried to get her breath back, a hand clutching her aching ribs.
“Now, now is that anyway for the Heartfilia heiress to behave?” the man asked his voice gentle and almost kind in a way that sent chills down her spine. No one should be able to speak so soothingly after being so violent with a young child, no one decent anyway.
“Who are you?” she demanded angrily, “What do you want from me?”
“Me? How rude, to think you’ve already forgotten me, and we were introduced just last night!” the man told her, sounding far too amused for her liking, “And after I was kind enough to fetch you a drink and everything!”
Lucy snarled as the memory came back to her. Her father had decided to host another party at their home, and she’d been forced to attend, her father wanting to show her off to all their business associates. She’d gone reluctantly and had been doing her best to make polite conversation when the adults engaged her, which was surprisingly often considering she was one of the few children at the party and certainly the only one under the age of twelve.
The other children hadn’t wanted anything to do with her, not that she was surprised. After all their mindsets were hardly similar and considering how much her father was bragging about her and the other adults were praising her, it wasn’t surprising that they would be jealous and uncomfortable. She would be too in a situation like that, being shown up by someone several years younger than her, though she liked to think she would at least try to move past that and be kind.
She’d been talking so much that her throat had started to hurt, but she’d been unable to excuse herself without seeming rude. To her surprise and relief one of her father’s business associates, a rather meek but kind man that she thought was named Ken had brought her a glass of juice.
She’d taken it gratefully, and while it had tasted a bit off she wasn’t about to complain about the one true smidge of kindness she’d been shown at this awful party. Now she wished she’d paid more attention and gotten her own drink no matter how rude it might have seemed, “You drugged me!”
“Ah, well it was necessary, how else was I going to get you away without you putting up a fuss and calling on those pesky little beasts of yours?” he asked reasonably.
“They’re not beasts they’re my friends, so give them back” she snarled at him, pushing herself up and launching herself at her keys, only to get whipped across the face with them, the metal teeth of Padfoot’s key leaving a digging open the skin of her cheek, and a swift follow up punch to the back of her head forcing her to the ground and a heel ground into her back keeping her there.
“That’s enough of that, silly girl,” the man told her, his voice still deceptively calm, “There’s no need for you to be putting up so much fuss, so long as your parents bring me what I desire in the next few hours you will be returned to them, admittedly in less than perfect condition but alive nonetheless. So be a good girl, and wait okay?”
Lucy wanted to spit out a furious retort but was stopped by a swift kick to her ribs that sent her tumbling back into the depths of her cell. She cried out in surprise and pain as something cracked and she hit the wall again. Her vision swam with the pain and it took her a second to reorient herself, but that second was a second too long because even as she tumbled to her feet and tried to make a grab for her keys once more Ken stepped back and pulled the door to her cell closed with a resounding clang as it slid into place.
She hit the door with a thud, grabbing hold of the bars and stretching her arms through desperately trying to grab hold of him and stop him leaving with her keys, but she couldn’t get there in time, and she watched as he walked off down the hall and out of her reach.
She slumped holding on to the bars as best she could for support, trying not to cry. Sometimes being in a body of a child meant that a child’s instincts came to the forefront and this seemed to be one of those times. Separated from her parents and her keys, her companions, woozy, hurt and bleeding, all she wanted to do was cry.
However she knew despite those childish instincts crying would get her nothing, she’d learned that a long, long time ago. She needed to do something, anything to get back her keys and get home. There was no way she was going to just sit here and hope her parents turned over whatever it was he wanted.
Oh she had no doubts they’d do their best, they loved her and she was sure they’d do anything to save her. However she didn’t trust the man to give her back, that kind of cold cruelty didn’t lend itself to trustworthiness, and besides he’d said he’d give
her
back he hadn’t said anything about her keys, and she sure as hell wasn’t leaving without them.
But what could she do? Glancing around she noted the walls were all hard-packed dirt, and rock there was no way she’d be able to get through them, not without tools of any sort at her disposal. The cage to her door was a series of iron vertical bars spaced too thinly for her body to fit through. She was only just barely able to get an arm out through one of the slats, no way would her entire body fit.
She grimaced, if only she had Virgo or Padfoot’s key either one would’ve been able to dig her out of here in an instant. Her hands clenched in anger at her own impotence, her eyes darting desperately around the cell for any sort of viable escape route, but the cell was as simple, empty and impenetrable as ever.
Taking a deep breath to stave off anxious tears she tried to think if there was anything she could do, or anything she might have that might be of use. Glancing down at herself she grimaced at the state of her dress, her hands automatically to the pocket that should’ve held her keys. It was just as empty as before, however as she pulled her hand out again she winced in surprise as her fingers caught on something.
Curious she pulled her skirt around so she could look at the pocket better, and was surprised to see a glint of metal in the pink fabric. Realization struck and with shaking hands she pulled out the two long pins that had been carefully tucked into place by a worried Virgo who thought her hair situation precarious enough that she might need the extra pins. To others said pins might’ve been useless, but others hadn’t spent several summers with the Weasley twins and Sirius, all eager to teach her all kinds of mischief making tricks, including how to pick locks with simple metal pins.
She nearly cried in shock and relief as she scurried toward the locked cell door, carefully examining the lock and realizing it was one she should be fully capable of opening. It took some maneuvering, and she was suddenly immensely grateful to be small otherwise her arms would never have fit through the bars so she could get her hands into position, but she was able to reach.
Working the metal into the lock the way she’d been taught was nervous work. She didn’t know when Ken or someone else might be by to check on her, so she had to keep a close ear out for the sound of footsteps while also trying to listen to the sounds of the lock to get her a better feel for what she needed to do to pop it open. Luckily it seemed no one was going to bother to check on her, and what seemed like an eternity later the lock popped open with a soft
click
.
She let out a shaky breath of relief as the door swung open and she slipped out into the corridor. It was fairly dark so she did her best to stick to the shadows, not sure where exactly she was going but knowing that time was of the essence. Any moment someone could stumble on her or her empty cell. She had no idea if Ken was the only one who’d kidnapped her or if there were others.
Even if it was just Ken he’d already proved to her that without her keys she was severely outmatched. She’d need the element of surprise if she was to have any sort of chance of getting her keys back and beating him.
Her fingers clenched angrily. She hated this, she hated being so helpless. It was like being without a wand again, only worse because she couldn’t even use the minor wandless magic she’d known before to help out, and she didn’t have any of her other magical objects like the invisibility cloak, marauder’s map or the twin’s prank items to help her out. If she got out of this mess she swore to herself she’d find a way to change that. No way was she going to be this helpless ever again.
Gritting her teeth in determination she carefully made her way down the hall, keeping the years of practice of sneaking around Hogwarts halls in mind, stepping lightly and keeping her ears pricked for any sort of sound. The corridor she was in had several other cells in it, but all of them seemed to be empty, and at the end of the corridor was a stairway that wound upwards. The door led to a much nicer hallway, clearly someone’s home.
Lucy frowned as she glanced around, noting that with the door closed there was no way anyone would even guess that just down the stairs was a prison. It fed her suspicions that Ken, if that really was his name, wasn’t a man to be trusted. After all good men generally didn’t keep dungeons in their basements, and some of the things she’d seen in the cells she’d passed had hinted at former occupancy.
Shaking that away and refocusing on her mission she began to sneak as carefully as she could down the hallways. Opening the doors was a risk, but one she had to take if she was going to retrieve her keys. Now that she was above ground she could tell it was night time, which hopefully meant there wouldn’t be many people around.
It was a fairly opulent house so it made sense that there would probably still be servants around somewhere even though it was night, that’s the way it worked at her home anyway. The sound of shuffling footsteps had her darting through one of the doors, pressing her back to the wall and peeking out through the gap.
It was just as well. There were two people walking down the hall, Ken, and a dark haired man she didn’t recognize. With every step she could hear a soft jingling sound, and her eyes immediately zoned in on the keyring attached not to Ken’s belt but to the dark haired mans.
Her face twisted in a snarl of fury to see the man wearing
her
keys as if they belonged to him. The two of them were chatting about something murmuring in low tones, but she couldn’t hear a word they were saying, too focused on her keys. This was the moment, she had the element of surprise, she could do this.
Flinging open the door she dashed forward, diving at the startled dark haired man, both of them were too surprised to respond and her fingers closed around the keys she instinctively knew belonged to her. The sharp metal dug into her palm she refused to let go as her momentum tore them free from the belt of the dark haired man.
She hit the ground hard rolling a ways away from the two men, her ribs, arms and palms aching, but triumphant as she clutched the two keys that belonged to her friends in her hand.
“Well, that was unexpected,” Ken mused aloud. His voice was still pleasant but his eyes were like ice, “So it seems you’ve escaped somehow. You’re more resourceful than I expected Miss Heartfilia.”
Lucy didn’t bother to say anything, instead clambering painfully to her feet and taking off down the hall. This was no time for heroics, she’d gotten her keys, now all she had to do was escape and get home, and someone else would take care of the rest.
The two men were shouting behind her, but she tuned them out that is until she heard, “Gate of Coma Berenices I open thee! Bernice’s Hair!”
She jolted with surprise and turned to look just in time as golden lengths of rope lashed out toward her. She lurched to the side just in time to avoid most but not fast enough to avoid them all, several got tangled in her skirt but one managed to wrap around her ankle. She felt a sharp vicious tug, and the resounding
crack
of her ankle seemed to echo around the hall as she fell face forward skidding across the floor, her ankle in agony and her ribs screaming in protest at the pressure as she bounced and rolled across the hardwood floor, skidding to a stop several feet away.
Only long experience kept her breathing through the pain despite the blackness that danced on the edge of her vision. She hadn’t felt pain like this at all yet in this life, and it was just as excruciating as she remembered. However it was nowhere near the level of the cruciatus curse, or basilisk venom, just because this body was young didn’t mean she was going to let this beat her.
Pushing herself up on her forearms she attempted to get her feet back under her and keep running only for shooting waves of agony to race up her leg and cause her to collapse again. She almost went face first to the floor, only to find herself lifted into a gentle princess hold.
“Good evening princess,” Virgo greeted gently, “Shall we get out of here?”
“Virgo? H-how?” she asked dazed as her spirit took off down the hall, far faster than she had managed.
“When my princess grows in magic power I too grow in power, recently you have grown strong enough that so long as my key is in your possession I can bring myself through the gate, without aid,” Virgo explained affectionately.
“I hadn’t realized that was possible,” she murmured still shocked, but also reassured.
“I would’ve come sooner,” Virgo explained with a slight frown, “But I wasn’t sure you were in trouble until the keys got taken away and then I couldn’t. Punishment princess?”
“No Virgo no punishment,” she assured her firmly, “Thank you for coming for me.”
“Always princess,” Virgo told her affectionately.
The two of them made it out of the house, Virgo, at her urging taking a leap through one of the ground floor windows, but weren’t able to make it more than a few steps before something hit Virgo’s back and the two of them went flying. Even cradled protectively against Virgo’s chest it was a painful landing, but even worse was Virgo’s gasp of pain.
Looking at her friend it was obvious what had hit them. Two light grey dogs, the size of greyhounds, one of which had probably hit Virgo and darted ahead of them blocking their escape and the other which was latched on to her spirit’s leg. Spirits she found then, didn’t bleed red the way humans did, but instead oozed a strange glowing ichor, even still it was very obviously painful for her friend, and she wasn’t about to stand for it.
“Gate of The Great Dog, I open thee. Canis Major!” she called grasping her silver key in a motion that had become extremely familiar to her and bringing forth her oldest companion.
Padfoot appeared with a furious howl that would’ve sent chills down her spine if she hadn’t known for a fact that he would never hurt her. It became clear very quickly who was the more powerful canine spirit, as he practically tore through the two obviously frightened dogs. Even knowing they couldn’t be killed and would recover easily enough in the spirit world Lucy still winced at the absolute carnage.
A part of her felt bad for them, after all it wasn’t their fault their master was helping the one who’d kidnapped her, on the other hand another part was vindictively satisfied. They’d hurt Virgo, Virgo her devoted and loving friend, and so deserved what they’d got.
“Well that’s more impressive than I thought an eight-year-old could manage,” the man with Ken noted, both men having caught up to them while they struggled with the dogs, “You didn’t mention she was able to hold two gates open at once.”
“Like I could’ve known,” Ken retorted flatly, “All my men reported really was on that vicious, flea-bitten mutt of hers. Just get her back Greer”
Said flea bitten mutt let out a dangerous snarl, placing himself firmly between them and her, clearly aware of the situation.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter all that much,” the dark haired man, whose name was apparently Greer replied with a mocking smile on his lips, “She’s just a little girl after all.”
“Get her out of here,” Padfoot prompted, and Lucy was surprised to hear an anxious note in his normally confident voice, “hurry!”
“Of course,” Virgo scooped her up again and the two of them were off before she could speak a word of protest.
“But Padfoot!” she protested twisting around in Virgo’s arms trying to see behind them, “We can’t just abandon him!”
“We’re not abandoning him princess, you have our keys” Virgo soothed, though she could hear a note of strain in her normally level voice, “He’s just going to keep them from coming after us until we can get you to safety, and even if he gets in trouble he can always return safely to the Spirit World and come back to you. He cannot be killed after all, or injured beyond what rest can’t fix.”
“But!” she tried again.
“But nothing princess,” Virgo told her the most firm she’d ever been with her, ever, “You are the Mage, the contract holder. We cannot exist here without you, you don’t fix nearly as easily as we do, and you’re not in any sort of condition to be fighting back, that makes getting you out of here and to safety the priority.”
Lucy bit her lip unhappily. She wanted to protest more, but she couldn’t Virgo was right. In this state there was nothing she could do. Hell even before she’d been so roughed up she’d barely been able to do anything other than be knocked around.
A strange rustling sound broke into her thoughts, and she twisted to look, and only barely managed to choke out, “Virgo look out!”
The spirit heeded the warning and dived to the side, just in time to avoid the large tail that swept the place that she had been before. Lucy stared, up and up and
up
meeting a pair of vermillion eyes that practically glowed. Taking in the enormous form she had a terrible sense of Déjà vu. It was like the basilisk all over again, though she did take a moment to be thankful it didn’t seem to have a deadly stare, otherwise she would’ve been dead already.
The snake spirit, and she had to assume it was a spirit of some sort, because she couldn’t imagine a creature quite like this occurring naturally in this world, was absolutely enormous and looked to be some kind of hybrid between snake and machine, it’s upper half composed of enormous dark scales, while the lower half was made of overlapping metal plates. Its lower jaw was made completely of metal, while the upper was organic with several dangerous looking fangs and a large tongue.
Searching her mind frantically for what constellation this particular spirit could be tied to, but either answer seemed completely and utterly ridiculous. Both were legendary keys, one the crystal key Hydra, The Water Snake and the other, the other the legendary golden key Ophiuchus, The Snake Charmer, it was the thirteenth “golden” key an unofficial member of the zodiac, called The Black Key for the winding black snake around the key’s blade.
The snake coiled, and lunged, darting at Virgo who only just managed to dodge out of the way. It lunged again and again, hissing dangerously as it hit digging enormous trenches in the earth with each strike.
Virgo appeared to be holding her own, lashing out with the chains attached to her manacles and digging holes under and around the large beast until a large tail whipped around out of nowhere catching her midair and sending her flying.
The snake, that she was almost sure now was Ophiuchus drew back to lunge, and she could see already that Virgo wasn’t going to be able to get out of the way this time.
♈️ ♉️ ♊️ ♋️ ♌️ ♍️ ♎️ ♏️ ♐️ ♑️ ♒️ ♓️
“Princess no!”
Ophiuchus jerked to a halt, eying the young woman in front of him curiously. He had orders not to kill the girl, apparently she was needed alive, at least for now. He could smell blood in the air, her blood, the child was clearly injured and struggling to stand, but still her eyes were steady and unwavering, her arms spread wide her small body placed firmly in front of his fellow spirit in a stance that was clearly meant to protect. How curious.
It seemed the rumors really were true, the new Heartfilia heiress really did love her keys, apparently enough to shield one with her own body, despite the fact that she had to know nothing was truly fatal to Celestial Spirits. They could be injured of course, hurt, tortured even, but they absolutely couldn’t be killed, and there was almost nothing they couldn’t heal from. Which meant she was risking her life to spare the spirit pain. It was… odd to say the least.
It made him pause and glance at Virgo who was on her feet again, ready to launch herself to the defense of her keyholder her eyes burning with a combination of fear for the girl, and a fierce determination to do anything in her power to protect her. It was just as she’d said when he’d confronted her in the Spirit World, Virgo loved her ‘little mistress’ and would do whatever was asked, and more for her, and it appeared her devotion was returned.
How curious. The Heartfilia Main Branch had been known for that kindness, for their persistence and instinctual desire to treat their Keys as equals, beloved partners and family members. He himself had never had the rumored pleasure of being contracted to one, and never particularly desired one either, content to be left alone or to be occasionally wielded in battle by someone strong or desperate enough to summon him.
He had a well-earned reputation for refusing to contract with the human who summoned him, and eating them instead, which prevented most from even attempting it. His current contract holder Greer, didn’t technically have a contract with him just yet, but had been pressured into using his key by his own master to catch the escaping girl.
The only reason he’d agreed rather than just eating both Greer and his master is because he’d scented Virgo nearby, which meant her Keyholder was the kidnapped girl. It was quite the coincidence, especially since it was so soon after he’d confronted the other Spirit about her mistress, and he’d been curious. He’d wanted to meet the little girl Virgo spoke so fondly of.
Admittedly throughout all his centuries on the outskirts of the zodiac he’d realized Virgo tended to never speak badly of any of her ‘masters’ it just wasn’t in her nature to protest, not even when she was treated poorly. However she did tend to get her revenge in petty ways, shortened hems, shoddy stich work, lukewarm tea, and the like, and her words about them, even words of praise were mild or backhanded.
Her description of little Lucy Heartfilia though, was nothing like that, even with some of her other masters who were good she remained calm and bland, whereas with this one she’d practically gushed, clear affection and adoration in every word, which had only added fuel to the fire that was his curiosity.
Looking at her now, trembling with the effort of keeping on her feet, her once beautiful dress torn and covered in mud and blood, but her green eyes defiant glowing with strength of will, her chin tilted stubbornly upwards refusing to bend or break. It made him even more curious about the strange child, who acted like no child he’d ever heard of.
It also caused him to feel a bit of reluctant admiration, after all even grown men tended to cower before him whereas she stood without flinch or waver. He could taste her fear, like all humans acrid on his tongue, and yet it was tempered by something else, something he couldn’t put a name to that only pushed his curiosity to new heights.
He found himself reluctant to push her, for all he knew he could break her small, fragile body in an instant and there would be nothing she or Virgo could do to stop him. After all Virgo wasn’t really built for attack or defense, though she could do a bit of both, no Virgo was meant for escape, escape which probably would’ve worked on almost any other zodiac key but him, since he was just as comfortable burrowing into the ground as she was and would be able to follow her easily.
His long drawn out moment of study was apparently enough to give her other key time to catch up. Canis Major skidded to a stop in front of him, placing himself firmly between him and her. The Silver Key was one of the stronger ones, and was meant for both tracking and battle, but compared to him? The key didn’t stand a chance and doubtless knew it, yet it seemed he was determined to try.
Unsurprising, the loyalty of Canis Major, once said loyalty was won was unshakable and fierce. The constellation willing to do anything it took to protect his key holder. If the girl had won the loyalty of Virgo, then it was no surprise she had Canis Major’s as well.
“What are you waiting for! Finish the dog and grab her Ophiuchus!” the shout interrupted his thoughts, apparently the dog wasn’t the only one who’d caught up to them, and his initial compliance had apparently made the one who had current possession of his key rather cocky, stupidly so. He wasn’t under contract after all, and had no obligation to obey or remain benevolent toward him.
Instead he simply cocked his head at the man, he’d been on the fence about grabbing the girl in the first place, as he’d only obeyed the initial order to appease his curiosity. That the man thought he could order him into it and with such an arrogant tone as well simply made up his mind for him.
Admittedly he was still curious about the girl, but he didn’t think grabbing her would assuage his curiosity, he’d have to try something else for that, but in the meantime he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do about the wizard Greer.
On one hand, the man was an annoying fool who deserved to be eaten for thinking he could order him around. On the other hand, his magic was what was sustaining his existence in this world, so if he ate him he’d be sent away back to the Spirit World. Normally this wasn’t an issue, but in this case it was, because the curious girl was in this world and he wouldn’t have access to study her if he went back. A rather frustrating conundrum considering he wanted to just eat the stupid human male and be done with it.
“O-Ophiuchus hurry up! They’re escaping!” the man tried again, although his tone had lost its haughty tone, and now shook with nerves. Apparently, he did at least possess enough self-preservation to realize that if he decided he wanted the stupid mage dead he’d be dead, and that he was pushing his luck.
Still his words did bring attention back to the group, who were indeed making a run for it, the girl once more cradled in Virgo’s arms, and Canis Major running alongside. That certainly wouldn’t do.
He took off after them, catching up in a matter of moments, and this time made sure to encircle them within his bulk, to ensure he’d notice any further escape attempts. Canis Major was growling at him again, and Virgo gently set her precious burden down on the grass to free her arms clearly ready to fight once more.
“You are a very curious little two-legger,” he mused aloud watching the grouping but making no further aggressive moves.
“I’m not so curious, just an average girl with remarkable friends,” the girl told him. Which normally wouldn’t be remarkable, Celestial Mages always seemed to be able to understand Spirits even if they couldn’t speak the human tongue. Except she hadn’t spoken the human tongue to him, she’d
hissed
at him, spoke back in his own language! He’d never realized such was even possible, and judging from the looks on the faces of her two Keys they hadn’t realized either.
“How intriguing, little miss I think you might just be the most curious creature I’ve ever met,” he informed her, “Tell me how did you come to speak such a language?”
“Language?” she repeated obviously confused for a minute before her eyes lit with surprise and recognition.
The look on her face one of surprise and then resigned exasperation only increased his intrigue. He’d been tossing the idea around since she’d first stared him down, trying desperately to protect Virgo from further injury, but this latest intriguing facet of Lucy Heartfilia sealed the deal for him.
“Form a contract with me,” he ordered firmly. It was the only way, the only possible way he could get the answers he was seeking, and it would allow him to judge for himself what kind of person the Heartfilia heiress was.
“A contract?” the girl repeated evidently baffled. She wasn’t the only one, both Virgo and Canis Major were eying him strangely, clearly unsure what to think.
“Yes a contract,” he replied, unsure whether to be amused or annoyed by her wide-eyed expression.
“But I don’t have your key,” she pointed out hesitantly.
“Easily remedied,” he informed her baring his fangs in a way that he’d seen blooded men faint in fear of, and it was, not only that but it solved his problem of wanting to eat the man for his sheer gall rather nicely.
She clearly read his intentions, and to her credit didn’t flinch from it, though she did frown, “I’m not sure anyone would allow me to keep key or contract if you killed the previous holder, to most I’m only a little girl and they’ll think you’d be a threat to both them and to me and would take you away ‘for my own good.’”
“And you couldn’t keep hold of it?” he asked extremely unimpressed.
“I could try,” she told him, still frowning, “But I’m young still, and haven’t grown into my abilities in full yet. There are numerous mages out there stronger than me that I wouldn’t be able to stop no matter how I tried.”
He tilted his head in thought. She was correct, she was only a hatchling, a hatchling with near limitless potential but a hatchling nonetheless. No matter how remarkable it wouldn’t be fair of him to assume her as capable as an adult just yet, normally he wasn’t altogether all that bothered with such things, but with a holder he was contracted to it was different. He, for all his aggression, and general apathy and dislike of most humans did pride himself on his word and honor. With his contracted Key Holders he was always fair, always.
“What do you suggest then?” he asked, curious as to what her answer might be.
She looked startled to be asked but recovered quickly, “Can you knock him unconscious instead? I can take the key from him after.”
“And if I do this for you, will you swear to create a contract with me after?” he prompted. He knew that Celestial Mages, the good ones at least, always,
always
kept their word once given as a matter of both pride and honor, and was the thing he respected most about them.
“I will so swear,” she promised firmly, meeting his gaze again, eyes burning bright.
He nodded and turned back to look outside his coils and found both Greer and the current possessor of his key had arrived and were waiting. He noted with interest that because she’d been speaking his language neither of them had any clue of the deal that had just been struck.
“Good work Ophiuchus!” Now let us in,” the man, Greer ordered, apparently having regained his bravado after he’d seemingly followed his order. Not for long. He shifted to make it look like he was obeying, but chose instead to swing his tail around to bring down hard on his head, and if he managed to take out the fool’s master along with him as both a favor and act of goodwill for his new Contracted Key Holder, well that was his business.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
“Monkey!” Jack called out, pointing. Said monkey stuck his tongue out.
Gibbs grinned, “Good to see ye, cap’n. Harry.”
Jack nodded as he exited out of the room, “How did ye escape?”
“Jack,” Gibbs started, indicating the monkey with his hand, “Found us an’ got us the keys. We managed to get our weapons, then we came an’ found you, with Jack’s help o’ course.”
Jack wrinkled his nose looking at the monkey, “Eugh, thanks,” he reluctantly said to the monkey who chittered in response.
“There they are!” Beckett’s voice yelled out.
“
Governor
Beckett,” Jack started mockingly, “This is the day you
almost
captured Captain Jack Sparrow!” he called out, before fleeing with the rest of the crew.
“After him!” Beckett ordered.
“Split! Harry, lead them! Y’know where to meet!” Jack called out as they ran up to a split in the hallway.
Jack went left, Harry went right.
He heard the footsteps of several of the crew splitting up following him. Seeing a window he called out, “Shoot out the window!”
Several banging sounds led and the window shattered. Harry jumped up on the edge, balancing precariously for a moment, unfortunately someone behind him bumped into him sending him tumbling out the edge.
He landed with a thud into a wagon carrying hay. He shook his head as he climbed up and out, seeing the rest of the men were scrambling down the side of the building. Gibbs was the first to reach him, “Yer luck is just the same as Jack’s,” Gibbs said.
“Unfortunately it’s a trait I’ve had me entire life,” Harry replied as the last of the men scaled down. At the same time he saw a few soldiers at the window taking aim. “C’mon men!” he yelled, waving them to get a move on.
The group ran through the streets. People screamed, panicked, and fled.
Harry ignored it as he and the men continued running, though he had nearly tripped as his brain caught up with his eyes and he realized he had run right past the Leaky Cauldron.
Regaining his footing and shaking his head he continued forward, finally they made it to the tree line, though the redcoats were right on their tail. Harry slowed down his run, silently gesturing for the ment to slow down as well.
As soon as a redcoat caught up to Hary he snatched the sword from the soldier as he tried to grab Harry. Spinning around he kicked at the soldier sending him back. “Fight!” Harry ordered.
“Aye!” the men called out, pulling out their own weapons. They fought, blades clashing with sharp clangs. It took a few minutes but they managed to defeat the soldiers. He saw the crew pat the men down, taking away weapons and some coins.
“Let's go,” Harry ordered.
“Where we goin’ lad?” Gibbs asked as they walked through the forest.
“The only place I could think of where Jack would want us to regroup before we go after the Pearl. His hat.”
“I was wonderin’ where it was,” Gibbs muttered.
It took a good ten minutes, but they arrived at the spot where Jack had hid his hat and coat, Harry’s coat being there as well.
Harry started to take off the redcoat gear, but paused for a brief moment when he felt an unexpected weight in the pants. Reaching into the pocket his hand gripped an item. Swallowing he shifted the item over to his coat before putting it on, fully removing the redcoat getup.
When did Jack…? Shaking his head he leaned against a tree, waiting for Jack to show up, after all he had something of his to give back.
“This way,” a familiar voice said in the distance.
“No it’s got to be this way,” another familiar voice protested.
The voices continued bickering and Harry went in the direction, frowning as he saw the remaining crew. But no Jack.
“Where's the captain?” Harry questioned.
“He got caught getting us out of the city, told us to follow the treeline and that we would find the right spot eventually,” the man reported after sending a brief glance at Gibbs who nodded.
Harry swallowed.
Gibbs looked at him, “What do ye think we should do lad?”
Harry turned to face Jack’s first mate, and after stepping away from the rest of the crew he quietly asked, “Why are ye asking me?”
“Lad, I might be the first mate, but yer Jack’s son, I imagine he’d want ye to decide, why else would he tell you to take charge when we split earlier?”
“Because I knew where he was talking about.”
“Aye, but he could have put me in charge, knowing ye would have given me the directions.”
Harry frowned, going to rescue Jack with everyone would be a mistake, it’d likely end up with them getting caught, but they needed a way out. Coming to a decision he nodded, “Gibbs, I want ye to take the crew and reclaim the Pearl, do what ye have to, just get her out of here.”
“And what of ye?”
“I’m going after Jack, if we don’t come back by the time the ship is ready to sail, leave without us, head to Tortuga.”
“Aye lad, good luck.”
Harry nodded, going to grab Jack’s hat, placing it on his own head, and then swinging Jack’s bigger coat around his own. Then he headed back through the trees in the direction of the town. He had no idea how he was going to rescue or help rescue Jack.
But he wasn’t going to leave the man behind.
Harry scrambled up a building, keeping to the roofs as best he could to keep out of sight of the redcoats. Now, where was Jack?
He ended up wandering around the roofs for a good half hour before finally hearing a commotion. Making his way in that direction he kept low to the roof as he looked down to see a well decorated courtyard with a gallows near the center of it.
Looking down he saw that Jack was being led to the noose. He frowned, Beckett had seemed to want the compass, and couldn’t steal it. But… Jack had never told him what would happen if someone killed him. Did Beckett assume that if he killed Jack he would be able to get the compass?
He saw Beckett standing in front of Jack, “Your life, for the compass. Give me what I want, and I’ll even offer you a full pardon.”
Harry listened to the conversation, even as he looked around the roof for anything to help him, scoping out the lay of the land.
Jack smiled, “Even if I would give
you
the compass, I can’t. Don’t have it,
mate
.”
Harry gave a little smirk at that, but now there was nothing stopping Beckett from hanging Jack, if the idea that Jack had the compass had been stopping him in the first place. Beckett frowned, “What do you mean you don’t have it?”
“It’s on loan, a little birdie is borrowing it,” Jack claimed.
“Sparrow!” Beckett hissed.
“Yes?” Jack prompted, grin wide.
“Not you! That son of yours! You gave it to him?”
“Well, I could have also given it to the parrot, that would classify as a little birdie,” Jack said flippantly.
“Find Sparrow’s son!” Beckett ordered some of the redcoats, making a gesture to the executioner.
“Everyone always assumes I’m his son!” Harry called out, drawing the attention upwards as he jumped off the roof, a fresh cut rope in hand. The rope was connected to a pole in the center of the courtyard with flags on it.
“Found him!” One of the soldiers yelled out, earning a glare from a fellow soldier.
Swinging he aimed at Jack, the rope dangling. Jack leapt up, grabbing the edge of the rope with his bound hands as they continued to swing around. Their momentum was quickly coming to an end, but that was fine.
Harry let go and stuck the landing before running through the open gap, Jack right behind him.
A shot rang out, and there was a cling. “Ack! Not the treasure!” Jack called out, though he didn’t stop running.
“Where are we going?” Jack yelled out as they ran.
“The Pearl! I told the crew to free her an’ get her ready!” Harry responded, throwing himself around a corner as a bang sounded.
The two continued running through the streets, eventually making it to the dock, where quite a few redcoats laid on the ground, unmoving.
Unconscious or dead. Harry didn’t really know, nor was it important. The Pearl was already starting to sail off. “I hope you told them to sail without us!” Jack called out.
“I did!” Harry returned.
“Cap’n!” Gibbs shouted from a distance, “Slow the ship you sniveling sea wretches!” they could faintly hear Gibbs order the crew.
They reached the end of the dock, and jumped.
Harry opened his eyes, widening them when he saw Jack was sinking down, despite his best efforts to swim. The disc! It must have been weighing him down. Harry swam down to Jack and grabbed him. With the two of them combining their swimming they were able to swim upward and break the surface, gasping for air.
Or at least Harry was gasping, he couldn’t hold his breath nearly as long as Jack could. The two swam towards the ship, bullets whizzing past them. Harry cried out as one hit his right arm. It made every movement of the arm harrowing and he could practically feel his muscles hitting the foreign object as he finished swimming over to the rope the crew had lowered for them. As soon as they were secure on the rope, Gibbs ordered the crew to get them moving again.
Fully lifted up, Harry collapsed on the deck. “Men, shoot a couple cannons in their direction,” Jack ordered.
“Cap’n?”
“Just do it.”
“Aye.”
With a loud bang a couple cannons were shot in the direction of the docks, “That’ll hopefully slow them down. Go get our medical supplies,” Jack said, before giving an order to Marty.
Marty nodded and scampered off.
Jack came over to Harry, “Remove yer coat lad.”
Harry did so, looking over and grimacing at the red staining his shirt. While he was doing that Jack removed his own coat and placed the treasure down on the deck next to Harry. Marty came back and handed Jack the medkit. Jack pulled out a magnifying glass as he moved the shoulder of the shirt down, “This is gonna hurt lad, I got to pull the bullet out.”
Harry nodded, taking the offered gag. He positioned himself as Jack ordered and the man carefully started to work on pulling the bullet out. The bullet had embedded itself right in the fleshy part above his armpit underneath his shoulder bones.
A few excruciating minutes later Jack had put the bullet to the side, and Harry removed the gag. “Is it over?” he questioned.
“Not yet lad, I got to sterilize the wound, then bandage it up.”
Harry grimaced, wishing right about now that he had some potions, even if they tasted disgusting. “Ow!” Jack said, shaking his hand a bit as he somehow managed to slightly cut his hand grabbing for the bottle of rum that was stored in the medkit. Jack pulled out the bottle of rum, and poured it over the wound, Harry hissed, eyes squeezing shut.
“Here feel free to have the rest of the bottle,” Jack offered with a grin.
Harry took it without protest with his left arm, drinking a bit of it. At the rate he was going Jack was going to turn him into an alcoholic. Jack pulled out a bandage and carefully wrapped the wound.
“There ye go, all patched up.”
“Now that the lad is healed, what is that?” Gibbs asked, gesturing to the disc, which had a few drops of blood on it, whether from Harry’s wound, or from the cut on Jack, Harry didn’t know.
Jack smirked, removing his coat, “This men, is our newest trophy,” he said, picking it up and holding it for the crew to see, “We found this in a
witches lair
braving all manners of traps and foul black magic to get it. We came back to show it off, but found the Pearl missin’.”
“Sorry Cap’n, they took us by surprise, we returned to the ship and were waitin’ for ye so we could set sail when they came swarming out.”
“So what do you plan to do with it?” One of the lower ranked pirates asked.
“Well it can’t exactly be broken easily for all of us to take share in, nevermind that ye didn’t do anythin’ to help, so I figured it’d adorn the Black Pearl, right above the captain’s quarters.”
“Ye heard the captain! Get the nails and wood! We’ll hang the golden disc up!”
It didn’t take long for the crew to place the disc onto the ship, holding it with some wood carefully placed and nailed.
As soon as the disc was placed, there almost seemed to be a pulse, and Harry felt a tingle wash over him. “Did anyone else notice that? Or just me?” Jack asked, staring warily at the disk.
“I did,” Harry admitted.
“Aye,” Gibbs agreed.
Various other calls came as well.
“Well, let’s hope we didn’t just manage to curse ourselves,” Jack muttered, heading to the helm.
Harry eyed the disc, it didn’t feel cursed, but then again he didn’t really know if cursed items felt cursed. That would kinda belay the purpose of an item being cursed if someone could feel that it was cursed though, wouldn’t it?
He gave a grimace at his own thoughts. That was way too many times to be thinking the word curse.
“What be our headin’ Cap’n?” Gibbs called out.
“Wherever the winds take us!” Jack responded with a grin, “I don’t know about ye, but I think I’ve been spending too much time on land.”
“Aye!” the crew called out.
Considering they had spent considerably less time on land then the others, that really spoke about Jack’s tolerance level for being on land. Or it could just be that he wanted to spend some time with the Pearl.
Harry made his way over to Jack, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the compass, “This is yer’s Captain.”
Jack took it smiling, “Thanks for keepin’ it safe.”
“Of course cap’n.”
Jack ruffled his hair, “Is there a place in the world ye want to go?”
Harry paused, his first thought being of Hogwarts, with Hermione and Ron. This was it, he could ask for Jack to take him to Scotland, could figure out how to find Hogwarts. Could try and figure out a way back to his own time.
But he would be leaving Jack behind, and Harry couldn’t make that choice. If he found a way back to the future… it wouldn’t be because he searched it out. If he found a way though, then he would make that decision when he arrived.
“I’m already where I want to be,” Harry answered.
He may be where he wanted to be, but he wasn’t
when
he wanted to be.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Patience.
A word used by those below, simple in all its letters and ways to be spoken, used by all of them regardless of what tongue they spoke with. It was a thought, a phrase and meaning to withstand the time that passed, to endure it and wait for what one needed.
Indeed, it was a thing they knew well, a concept they had stuck to throughout the countless millennia of their existence.
Yet, that did not mean they liked to wait...
Far from it.
For they had waited long enough in the Maw’s eyes.
But their sibling dictated otherwise.
The Eyes had told them to stick to the course, to their plan, to ensure that everything that they had laid out came to bear fruit. The Maw knew this of course, they knew of their plans, of their knowledge even greater than their own, how they schemed and planned for events that may not even transpire.
Yes... they knew this well.
But they still felt the raging fire inside them roar louder with annoyance, anger at their want.
Her
.
Their favored champion, their chosen...
So close, within their own domain, walking once more where they should be.
Just the knowledge, the thought in their being brought a shudder to the Maw’s infinite being.
They were here, after they had been separated for such time.
Of course, bringing the Geisha to them was a different question.
One that they couldn’t rush, according to their sibling.
But what did they know?
They let their own greatest slip through their grasp, telling them it was all planned, all ensured to their great plan to forge the cycle once more.
The Maw remained skeptical, distrusting of such a notion...
Yet...
They had kept to it, restraining themselves from interfering.
Even when the Transporter
failed
them.
They were supposed to bring them to the front, directly into the mouth of their vessel, lead them and separate, to ensure that the two could be properly brought back into the fold. Yet the Ferryman had dropped them elsewhere, together and travelling through places that they struggled to keep track of.
Such a thing brought an infernal rage to the heat of their furnace, for such a betrayal and insult to them. But they knew they could doing nothing to the lesser thing, for that had purposes to fulfil in the cycles that shall be renewed.
After however?
Perhaps find another to replace-
They stopped.
A blip...
A tiny fragment of power, echoed from the its vessel, earning their full attention from their own musings. It took but a moment to find the source, sensing through all the steel and materials of the vessel to find it.
There
.
It was them...
Their... replacement, their placeholder and lesser servant, placed to take up what was needed.
But not what the truly desired...
Still however, they earned the Maw’s attention.
For they ever hardly used their powers, believing them to make them... lesser.
An insult perhaps, given they came from themselves...
Especially so for considering themselves above the use of such gifts, such power that had bestowed on them.
Though... they of course knew that they were never meant to be their champion in the first place.
Regardless of that however, the replacement had used their powers, an event that could only mark something important.
Something related to their desire champion...
The furnace of uncounted souls burned in their form with delight.
So very close...
Just a bit longer...
...And they shall have what was taken from them.
Darkness.
That is what he knew.
But it was not the darkness of the shadows, the darkness of the night, nor the darkness of the soul.
No, this was a different kind of darkness...
The one that strangled the life from the body, stripped it of all that there was.
Which is what he was currently feeling right now.
Suspended in the air, a scream in his throat and pain in his form that he never knew, nor wanted to know existed. Yet all around him was nothing but darkness, shadows that seemed to bend the light to stop him from seeing, that writhed and scattered like a swarm of insects.
All of it only fueled the fear in his heart, in his mind that made his blood pump with adrenaline.
Yet even then, through all that pain and fear, his thoughts still focused on one thing, one person.
Alle...
She...
Was here with him...
Where was she...?
Where-
Suddenly, the darkness fled from his surroundings, light once more entering his pupils and causing them to burn from its sudden return. Eyelids blinked in confusion as the pain left his body, confusion replacing the fear only somewhat, eyes adjusting to the world again.
Mono didn’t have long to question it however.
Not as his entire form was suddenly thrown against something...
Before something else wrapped around it all, leaving his head exposed, yet causing everything else to remain pinned to where it was.
He struggled in the bindings unseen, even though his eyes still adjusted to where he was.
All he knew was what had happened wasn’t good and they needed to get out, escape from wherever they were, find Alle and-
“Cease your struggles
Broadcaster
.”
The sudden speaking of an unknown voice caused him to do as it said, though not because it had said so.
But because something told him it was the best idea.
Once he did, his eyes finally adjusted to the light and saw where he was...
Which was to say, not a good place.
The room itself was fairly spacious, four walls plastered with a combination of lavender purple and pinkish flesh wallpaper, its patterns a sight to behold for one such as him. Various other thins decorated the room alongside it, a few bookcases in one corner, lamps hung on the walls that provided light, a few tables that had vases or glass items upon them.
However, the two more prominent items in the room obviously drew his attention.
The first was the piano that sat in the center of the room, different however from the one he had seen in the school all those years ago. It was much flatter than that one, in better condition as well, the wood that made it up perfectly varnished and glittering the caramel like brown colour it had. The keys were also displayed fully, untarnished white and black that gleamed in the light above them.
Upon the piano also sat a glass vase, filled with flowers that seemed to wilt and possessing colours of red and yellow that seemed dimmer than he thought possible.
That also brought him to the other item that drew his attention...
A painting.
It sat on the wall in front of him, massive in size and taking up a good portion of the wall it hung from. The painting, held in a finely crafted bronze frame, depicted the Maw itself, showing the iron vessel from the outside, arisen from the water and fully displaying its domed structure. Smoke bellowed from the chimney atop it, a black smog that contrasted the sea the ship floated in.
The sea itself was naught but a cascade of black and blues, portraying a grim reminder of what being stranded alone in the vast depths would bring...
Something he would rather not think about.
Yet, it was something he couldn’t focus on, not with the other two glaring issues in the room.
Those being the two adults, sat in the room with him and looking right at him.
The Ferryman was sitting by the piano, a tiny seat in front of it that didn’t suit the massive monster, whose form leaned on the instrument lazily.
However, the other was the one that drew his attention more, for they were much closer to him than the other...
The Lady.
Exactly how Six had said the adult had looked.
A finely woven robe of red and bronze that flowed without a crease, a mask of wood that resembled a fox of the woodlands, who now sat before him. She was sat in a chair of finely crafted mahogany, cushions appearing to deform from her form, looking almost as inviting as a fresh bed.
Those thoughts mattered little however, with the ruler of the Maw present in front of him, as he was incapable of doing anything.
Speaking of...
He managed to notice that he was tied to a chair, the same material as the Lady’s own, but much simpler in its appearance, for it did not even have any cushions. The boy also managed to notice the strange string he had been bound with, seemingly a dark purple in colour, wrapped around him and the chair numerous times to keep him still.
As soon as he finished his observations however, the Lady spoke.
“Gracious of you to heed my words...” The adult spoke, startling him slightly with the way she did so.
The Lady then leaned back in her chair, hands folded atop each other as her head rested on the headrest. “Though I still find your... defiance irritating.”
Those words finally managed to elicit a reaction from him, face shifting into one of fury and contempt for the monster in front of him. “Where is Alle, what have you done with-”
“
Silence.”
The words spoken by the mistress of the Maw did as they stated.
But not from his own decision...
No, something forced him to do so.
The words died upon his lips, his body, his mind trying to form the letters he wished to speak. Yet, they simply refused to do so, the muscles in his mouth and throat refusing to do what they were told and form the demands he wanted to speak.
As he panicked slightly about the inability to speak, he heard the Lady released a small chuckle, a deeply venomous one that oozed like the shadows she clearly came from.
“There... it is much better to converse when you don’t interrupt now, isn’t it?” She inquired, a tone of sarcasm to her cold voice.
Mono responded by narrowing his eyes despite his ability to speak being taken away, something which caused the adult to sigh.
“So defiant...” She commented before she leaned her head to the left slightly. “But if you must know, your... companion, is in the care of
him.”
Her hand gestured to the massive adult in the room with her.
The teen’s eyes scanned over to the Ferryman, whose eyeless gaze caught his own, causing the kidnapper to shift himself in his small seat. Once he did so, Mono could see that Alle was indeed present, but not in the way he had hoped.
Instead, the bodyguard was trapped in a small steel cage, similar to the ones he had seen before when they were trapped in the Hospital and a few he had seen scattered about the ship. Yet now she was in one, seemingly unresponsive and out cold with shackles around her arms and legs.
The sight made his blood boil in his veins, seeing his friend, bound and trapped like some kind of animal. Yet, as he stared, he saw the Ferryman’s own gaze, or lack of it and watched how his face seemed to... shift.
Then, the flesh shifted again and he watched as it seemed to... point?
What?
He watched it however, watched as the flesh pointed to the Lady in front of him.
Was... was the adult trying to tell him to focus on the Lady?
Why?
What possible reason could there be to do so?
…
Mono didn’t like following what the adult was doing.
Yet at the same time, he remembered what Alle had said.
That the Ferryman had seen her and done nothing of it.
So... there was something more here, something that decided he would do as the kidnapper said.
For now...
With that in mind, he turned his gaze to the adult, who had leaned forward in her seat slightly.
“Does that ease your mind then, knowing the safety of someone else, but not your own?” The Lady inquired with a scolding tone. “A backwards concept.”
Mono simply replied by narrowing his eyes at the monster, hoping that perhaps he could burn her face through sheer anger and hatred alone.
He couldn’t.
Another chuckle came from the Lady as she gestured to Alle. “Though I must say... you’ve certainly made a
mess
of my domain...” She told the boy, a hiss of anger in her words as she did so. “Even with your... limited capabilities.”
The bag-headed teen felt his eyes widened slightly at that, how did she-
A sigh and a shaking of the head came from the adult. “You think I did not notice the items disturbed in my own home?” She questioned with disbelief and amusement. “Or that those you encountered you would not tell me?”
Mono felt realization spike through him.
The shadows...
A sigh came from the Lady. “Truly, you are as headstrong as they foretold...”
Foretold...?
What did she-
Another chuckle came from the adult. “Ah... there in confusion upon your face Broadcaster, truly ignorant of what you know?” The adult questioned with a smirk to her words.
He snorted at her in anger, the hatred building up in his chest.
Mono was not
him
, he was nothing like
him
and for this monster to keep suggesting so, to keep speaking that dread title to him?
It made his blood boil...
Yet, that was something the Lady seemed to be aware of. “Angry are we, for what, me speaking the truth, or that you hoped to get through here without me knowing?”
The teen forced air through his nose again, did she like the sound of her own voice?
“Though... I must inquire, what reason could you truly be here for, to step into a place that no others would dare?” The monster asked, leaning forward slightly more.
Mono simply kept his glare on the adult, hearing his own heart in his ears from both anger and fear. Yet, after a few moments she pulled back again.
“I see... you are afflicted with the Curse aren’t you?” She spoke, raising a hand to stroke her chin under the mask.
“The master stated you would come, though they never answered how...” The Lady mused to herself, before turning back to him. “Though it seems I have the answer now.”
Mono remained silent from her musings, silently questioning what she was on about. Regardless, the adult seemed to shrug before leaning back again.
“However... I question your decision to come here to look for you more than likely believe is a cure...” The Lady spoke, a tinge of curiosity to her voice. “For throwing away one’s life to do so seems... counter-productive.”
“Especially regarding-”
“Lady, are you gonna do anythin’ or am I gonna leave before the Sun decides to finally die?” The Ferryman suddenly interrupted, annoyance lacing his words.
Said adult paused in her speech and despite the mask she wore, the boy could tell that her face was pulled into one of anger. She then spun to face the Ferryman, who impatiently tapped his finger against the piano.
“In truth Ferryman, whilst you are required to be seen by the master, you are not required at the moment...” The Lady replied, voice cold and very much restraining the anger within her words. “So I would ask you to leave...
now
.”
A chortle came from the kidnapper, but nevertheless stood from his seat. “And what am I doin’ with this one then?” He inquired, picking up the cage Alle still lay in.
The Lady shook her head. “They are of no interest to me...” She stated simply. “Throw them to the bottom, for they will be called upon to serve their purpose in time for the Guests.”
Mono widened his eyes at the statement, struggling more in his bonds as the Ferryman turned to the other side of the room. The teen then watched as the adult reached up and grabbed one of the wall-mounted lights...
Before pulling it down.
Instantly, a click was heard and the section of wall next to it slowly lowered into the ground and though the angle was not the greatest, Mono could see where it led.
The main room...
More specifically, the one that had held the statue with the crushing ceiling.
This had been here all this time?
Yet, he could not question it for long, not as the Ferryman walked out, massive feet echoing away from them and from sight.
The teen struggled in his bonds as the monster did so, trying to break free, trying to stop them.
They...
No...
They wouldn’t take her...
He wouldn’t let them...
Nobody would hurt them.
Never!
The sparks gathered inside him, crackling against his skin before-
It stopped.
Mono looked down, seeing the sparks he knew suddenly fading away.
He stared for a moment, unsure of what had just happened before trying again...
Sparks gathered, crackling against the bonds and...
They stopped again.
The teen gritted his teeth, focusing on them again.
Why weren’t they working, he needed them to work, he needed them to-
“Your powers shall not work Broadcaster...” The Lady spoke, breaking his concentration as he focused on her. “For I am no fool to think you would not try using them.”
The Lady then raised her hand and before his eyes, he saw a shadowy tendril emerge from beneath her sleeve and slither its way over to the light the Ferryman had pulled to do the same.
A moment later, the hidden door once more arose from the floor, sealing him and the Lady inside.
Alone...
The Lady then turned slowly to face him once more, lowering her hand back to sit atop the other.
“Now then...” She began, making the slightest of hand gestures.
Mono then felt the pressure in his throat release and the muscles in his lips were once more able to form the words he wanted.
But he knew that it was for no reason, not as the adult leaned forward slightly.
“Shall we converse without interruption?”
Six knew where she was.
Vaguely...
She was in the grip of an adult, tightly compact with her limbs pinned to her sides and a leg that screamed in agony from the constant abuse it had suffered. Yet, that pain would have to scream all it wanted, for she was in a situation that was much more pressing for her and the guard that was in the other adult’s hand.
Not to mention she was still reeling from what had happened earlier.
That... smog, that thick black smoke that had entered her, that had made her entire body scream in agony before it had suddenly stopped.
Yet she knew there was something there, something inside her that wasn’t before, something that left a horrible feeling in her stomach.
It was something she needed to deal with...
But she couldn’t, not at the moment.
Speaking of...
Six was, despite the situation, aware of the fact the adult had gone into the elevator and going down, if the ring of the elevator was any indication. Something which brought a fresh wave of anger and small panic to her usually calm demeanor, knowing that it would take time to get back up to the quarters.
To the others...
Mono.
Damn it...
Knowing the boy, he would be screaming and trying to figure out where they were.
A question that she didn’t know herself.
But not for long...
As the elevator finally came to a halt.
The sound of the doors opening was then heard and the adult holding them seemed to clear its throat, before it stepped out the elevator that closed behind them. Despite how she was held, the teen could barely make out that they were in a very poorly lit area, one with air so cold that it made her shiver, despite the disgusting warmth the monster radiated.
Said monster then began to walk, its footfalls clacking against what was obviously metal and echoing quite loudly, making Six realize where they were.
The lower levels...
Perhaps not as low as the Prison, but below the more... fancier places like the Lady’s quarters and the dining area.
Not good.
Regardless, the adult came to a stop for a second before something was pressed and a door clearly opened with a mechanical hiss before the adult stepped through it, the door closing behind them.
Then, the monster in red stepped forward a few more steps before It seemed to sniff at something and turned. Six then felt the hand holding her shift and within a moment, she was suddenly dropped again and hit solid steel.
Her eyes flung open and confirmed what she felt.
A cage, one of the wiry ones that she had been placed in a few times now.
Not something she liked repeating...
Then, another thud was heard, as the guard with her was placed into a different cage alongside her, the boy releasing a groan as he was deposited without care.
The teen in yellow then looked up, seeing the melted face of the monster looking down at them for a moment before it turned and walked over to the other side of the room, allowing Six to see the room in full.
It was nothing special of course, but it did confirm they were in some of the lower levels, if the riveted steel of the walls was anything to go by. The room also contained little within it, besides a stack of cages resting on the wall and what appeared to be a chute of some kind, like the one in the Kitchen area she had used to hide some years ago now.
Besides that, the teen also noticed that the cages they were placed in were situated on a metal desk, its surface rusted nearly entirely, flaking off to reveal corroded steel.
It was... unsightly, to say the least...
Her attention then switched however, as the bright red adult finally stopped at the wall and seemed to reach for something on it, followed by something clicking a few times. Then, the adult raised something to its head on one side, seemingly a curved shape with two small dopes on the top and bottom.
Then, after a few moments, the adult began to... speak?
It wasn’t like any form of speech she had heard before, sounding more like a series of grunts and raspy sounds, but it still continued to do so.
At least for a few seconds it did...
Eventually, it seemed to sigh and sag slightly, before the curved apparatus in its hand was placed back on the wall and the adult stopped over to the door in the room. Then, the button next to it was pressed and the door once more opened before closing as it stepped through.
Leaving them alone...
...and easily able to escape.
Something which made Six raise an eyebrow.
Did this adult seriously decide that leaving her alone was a good idea?
Idiotic.
With that in mind and with her leg still screaming at her that it was in great pain, the teen raised her hand and let the shadow fill it whole, to cut the-
…
Wait...
Where was it?
Six looked to her hand, expecting to see the shadowy liquid filling it up like she had countless times.
Except, it wasn’t there.
Her eyes narrowed and the girl focused her mind on the hand.
But still, nothing came.
The Yellow Devil felt confusion and concern run through her mind, why wasn’t it working?
She could feel the stores inside herself, the reserves she called upon to do so, sloshing around inside herself, along with the-
Wait...
What was that?
Six looked down.
There... was something else there, something... bigger, overpowering and...
The
smog
.
It had entered her, desecrating everything inside her and filling her with a sickness she had never felt before.
Yet... how had it-
The shadow...
‘
What’s happening, why aren’t my powers working?’
She spoke into her mind, wanting the shadow to answer her.
But nothing came.
Concern once more rushed through her mind.
‘Hello, answer me
!’ Six once more commanded.
But again, nothing came.
Frustration grew in Six, mixed with a slight amount of panic and stress at the situation.
‘
Damn it, where the hell are you-’
Six...?
Her eyes widened.
The shadow, it had responded.
But...
It didn’t sound right.
There was something wrong with it...
Almost like it was... broken, tired even.
A realization that made Six calm her anger towards the apparition slightly. ‘
What’s... what's wrong?’
She asked hesitantly and unsurely.
Something akin to static came from the shadow, before its actual answer came through truly.
There’s... there’s something wrong Six... there’s...
More static came through, cutting off the shadow before it continued.
There’s... that smog, it... it’s doing something...
A slight whine of pain came from the shadow, a sound the teen had never heard from the shadow.
It... it hurts... I...
Six remained silent at the explanation from the shadow.
Because why wouldn’t she?
She had never heard the shadow sound... hurt, distressed even and it was something she was really sure how to respond to.
Yet, she tried anyway.
‘
Are... are you okay?’
She asked, as concerned as possible, given the situation.
A tired and pained distorted chuckle came from the shadow.
Nice... to see you care...
The shadow replied, before it sighed.
It... its stopping you... from using your powers... it's doing something to them...
‘
What exactly?’
Six asked with the slightest tinge of worry.
Static played for a second before it replied.
Don’t... know, it... it seems to be turning them into... something else, but I don’t...
It gave another whine.
It’s... affecting me as well.
Six raised a slight eyebrow at that, a different feeling in her chest now. ‘
Are you...?’
Another chuckle.
Don’t... think so...
The shadow replied, though it didn’t do much to settle the feeling in her chest.
But... if it was...
Remember what Mono said... always...
The Yellow Devil frowned at that. ‘
You won’t die, who else would annoy me?’
That caused her shadowy copy to laugh truly.
Hah... maybe you do care... funny...
Six, for one of the few times, let a small smile come to her lips.
But she quickly shook it off as soon as she remembered where she was.
That was to say, in a place she hated and in a cage, when they were more important things to do.
Like escaping from said cage.
Which reminded her of something...
That she wasn’t alone.
Six turned, seeing the guard in his own cage like her, yet...
There was something... wrong with him.
Greeney was seemingly shaking, eyes darting around the room as they took on a slightly crazed look to them. His breathing was erratic, no pattern or rhythm to it, simply one that had no thought behind it.
The teen frowned at the sight and brought her hands up to shaker her own cage before whispering. “Hey...”
Yet, her words did nothing, as the boy simply kept his panicked look, completely ignorant to her call.
Her frowned deepened and she repeated what she said. “Hey.” But this time louder.
But he still didn’t respond...
Six narrowed her eyes, wondering why he wasn’t answering, wondering why he was in such a state.
Then, she remembered
why
.
The boy’s past, his entire life from before...
Stuck in a cage, forced to endure pain and suffering at the hands of an adult, all for no purpose but for its own entertainment seemingly. It didn’t help that he had also learned that the cages came from the Maw, that this place moved them, brought them to-and-fro.
And now?
Now he was in the same situation, the same cage that surrounded him.
The same cages where he lost her...
A person he had cared about.
He had never spoken her name, never said who she was.
But it was clear that it was someone special...
And something he was now reliving.
Yet...
As much as she knew that such a thing was painful.
They didn’t have time for it.
So, with a reluctant sigh, the teen reached through the bars of the cage she was in and managed to grab his. Then, with as much strength as she could muster, the girl managed to slide her cage and his closer...
Just enough to slip her own arms through into his cage...
Before she grabbed him.
Then, she simply shook him...
Before slapping him.
For they didn’t have the time to be gentle.
Plus... it worked.
The guard snapped out of his seemingly terrified state, looking around in a panic, chest heaving before he locked eyes with her. “Six, where are... what is...”
“We need to move...” The teen interrupted, knowing they needed to move before the adult returned. “
Now.”
Greeney stared at her for a moment before nodding with a grim expression, looking around before pointing to the edge of the table.
Six knew what he was suggesting, for it was something she had done when she was here before. But it was also something that wasn’t as risky as before, given that it wasn’t as high, nor did she possess a bad leg when she had done so.
Yet, beggars could not be chooser's, especially not in this situation.
So, she instead motioned for him to go first, pointing to her bad leg as she did.
The guard stalled for a second before he nodded back, facing forward as he begun the strained task of ramming himself into the bars.
Causing the cage to shift forward, towards the edge.
Slowly, but surely, the cage was shifted over the edge and once it did, the guard and his cage were sent toppling over with a loud crash of metal.
Six then waited for a few moments, hearing Greeney give a tired groan from the sudden crash before standing to his feet. Then, she heard him move around before something else was dragged below her and a moment later, the guard pulled himself up onto the desk alongside her.
The boy in green then looked the cage over, seeing that there was a latch that could only be undone from the outside.
Which, he of course undid, allowing the teen to step free.
Onto her bad leg, which immediately made her hiss in pain.
Great, she had nearly forgotten about that...
Something shared by Greeney, as he pulled a face before offering his arm again, allowing her to cross the table enough to reach the edge.
Where she would have to drop down...
A sigh came from her lips.
If she had a leg after this, she would be very surprised.
Regardless, it was something she needed to do, even if it was going to hurt greatly.
So, she gestured for the guard to let go and proceed first, the boy nodding in return as he unhooked his arm before jumping down. Six then approached the edge and looked over, seeing that he had dragged a cage below to get up.
Six then took a breath before sitting on the edge and lowering herself down, good foot first to take most of the impact.
It still hurt when she did however.
But it was something she needed to repeat, as she reached the floor with another hiss.
She couldn’t keep repeating this, soon enough she’d have to run and doing that with a leg as bad as this would be impossible. Even if she tried to keep to the shadows and remain hidden, it was guaranteed they’d be found eventually.
Not good.
Focusing on what could happen wouldn’t solve the issue however, so the teen instead sighed and prepared to move.
Except, she didn’t.
Because as she was about to step on the broken bars of the cage that Greeney had been contained in.
The bars had clearly splintered and fallen off the body, scattering about like twigs from a tree, except much sharper than most trees.
Not all though.
She remembered those trees in the far east, the ones that had branches more akin to knives than any plant she had seen before.
Maybe she should have taken some, just in case...
Six shook her head, now wasn’t the time for reminiscing about trees that could kill you if you ran into them.
Now was the time for quick thinking.
Something which she was very adept at, especially right now.
Which is why she bent down and picked up one of the broken bars of the cage, seeing how it was just thick enough to support her, despite how bent it was. So, she quickly grabbed the middle where it was bent and with a force of strength, bent it back so that it was straight enough to be grabbed.
Then, she quickly switched to another end of the bar and bent it ninety-degrees, forming a crude handle to grab.
It wasn’t great by any means.
But it would do for now...
So, with new makeshift walking stick in hand, Six put weight onto it, testing it and seeing that it held her weight with little issue.
Good.
Her gaze then turned from it to the guard who had been waiting, seeing him silently observe her with a passive look to his face.
Six lifted an eyebrow at him, something which made Greeney raise his own, wondering what was on her mind.
Yet, she simply shook her head, it wasn’t anything important, so it could wait.
They needed to get out of here, before the waxy adult came back.
Though... that was easy enough, given that the button to leave the room was very much apparent.
Six indicated as much by nodding her head at the button, the boy nodding back as they began to look for something that they could throw at the button. With her leg being injured, it was out of the question for her to be thrown, or for her to throw the guard.
The last thing they needed was her leg getting even worse.
That wasn’t worth focusing on now though, instead she kept looking for something, anything with enough weight to throw at the button.
But there wasn’t anything.
The room, as she had seen before, was barren of nearly anything they could use.
A problem, to be sure.
How were they going to-
Her thoughts stopped...
Because she could hear something.
Something outside the door.
Footsteps, approaching fast.
Six’s eyes widened, as did the guards.
They needed to hide.
Now.
Lest they be put back into the cages.
The Yellow Devil’s eyes quickly scanned across the room, looking for something, anything they could hide behind. Her eyes landed on the small stack of cages on the other side, all possessing bars that could be seen through, yet stacked high enough to provide a spot to do so.
It would have to do...
Though... given how stupid adults tended to be, it would more than likely work.
Six then quickly made her way to the stack of cages, Greeney following as she managed to find a gap behind the second row of cages, discovering that the pile went four cages deep and only three up.
Good enough, especially with how close the guard had to squeeze to hide them both.
Yet that mattered little, as the door to the room suddenly slid open, allowing the adult to step in.
The pair lowered themselves more, able only to barely see the waxy man through the bars and watching how it discovered their escape.
A sound came from the adult, like a combination of a growl and a gurgling hiss, as the monster bent down to pick up the remains of the cage that had broken. The wax man then looked the destroyed prison over, before walking forward and placing the majority of the pieces into the chute from earlier.
Once it did so, the adult wandered back over to the contraption it had worked before, thought this time they were much closer to it as it did so, allowing them to see the adult as it seemed to rotate something, causing it click.
The wax man then raised the same apparatus to tis ear and once more spoke the incomprehensible garbles into it, yet this time Six could barely hear another sound come from the strange device.
A... familiar voice, despite how little she could hear of it.
The Lady’s voice...
and judging by the tones of the words alone, the monster was not happy.
Clearly, she was expecting something, perhaps them captured.
Something reflected as the adult seemed to flinch from her words, before mumbling again into the device and causing the Lady to speak something else.
But Six didn’t focus on that.
Because they needed to get out, whilst the adult had left the door wide open.
Which is why she motioned to the guard as such, pointing to the doorway and causing him to nod. The pair then slowly made their way around the cages they hid behind, eyes kept solely on the wax man, as he continued to speak to the mistress of the Maw on the other end.
Six herself however, had to keep her pace slightly slower, as the metal stick she was using would make too much noise if she walked faster. So, she kept her pace slower, even as the guard made his way over to the doorway, eyes focused on the adult as it continued to speak.
The teen in yellow then reached the doorway, looking back to the adult as it continued to speak, both ready to-
It froze.
The waxy man suddenly ceased its speech and became completely stock still, no movements coming from its face.
Six did the same, wondering what exactly had caused the adult to suddenly cease what it was doing.
But then... she saw
why.
Her eyes narrowed and she looked closer at its head.
Or more accurately, its face.
Because the waxy and simple face was now facing them.
But the head hadn’t moved at all.
Something punctuated, as the adult placed the apparatus back on the wall without missing a beat and Six watched as the face that was looking right at them, suddenly seemed to disappear into the moulds of waxy flesh, as the adult turned to face them. She then watched as the blank fleshy face came into view, before seeing its actual face emerge from the flesh with a sickening slurp and a furious expression.
Six felt her face sag in annoyance and disappointment.
Why were none of these adults normal in any capacity, why did they all have things that made their lives harder?
Such questions could wait later however, given that the adult began to move towards them...
And they had nowhere else to go.
Or... she thought as such, had Greeney not suddenly pulled her through the doorway and propped his hands next to the button that controlled the door.
Six knew what she was about to do was going to hurt.
But what other choice did they have?
So, she quickly placed her good foot into the boy’s hands before launching herself up to the button with a scream wanting to burst from her throat. Yet, she kept it at bay as she pressed the button with all her weight, a satisfying click heard as she did.
The door then raised itself from the floor and Six watched as the adult’s waxy face nearly impacted against it, the oily flesh nearly cut off by inches.
Yet...
What could they do now?
The girl spun around and confirmed what she thought, seeing the vast empty space of a walkway that led to the elevator they had been taken through. Yet, the rest of it was simply an empty void of other walkways too far to reach and dangling chains that led nowhere.
They had nowhere to run, for it would take too long to reach the elevator.
Her mind ran through options they had, trying to think of a way to escape the waxy faced man and-
Wait.
Wax...
The girl’s gaze quickly snapped to the guard, affixing him with an intense glare.
“Lighter, now!” She commanded with urgency.
Greeney stumbled at her request but quickly corrected himself, reaching for the lighter and quickly tossing it to her.
Right as the door reopened itself.
Instantly, the wax man reached for them, grasping the two of them into its hands and bringing them up. However, six just barely managed to keep her arm from being pinned to her side, though she still felt the pain scream in her leg as it grabbed her. Yet, that mattered little, not as the monster brought her closer to its face to inspect her.
Wrong choice.
Because as soon as it did, the girl flicked her finger against the flint wheel, flame igniting in her palm...
Before thrusting it forward...
Right into the adult’s waxy looking flesh...
And proving her theory right.
The instant the flame licked to the adult’s greasy looking flesh, it lit up within a moment, the searing flame quickly spreading across the fleshy mounds. This of course, made the wax man drop the pair, in favour of bringing the hands up to grab its face, all the while letting out a gurgling cry of pain as the flames did their damage to it.
That wasn’t the only damage however.
As Six fell to the ground, pain once more exploding up her leg, as she felt a fresh stream of blood run down it.
Her teeth clenched and she forced her body up, seeing her leg had indeed been ripped open
again
and would more than likely needing treat again.
Great.
Just... great.
Regardless, they needed to get moving whilst the adult was currently thrashing around with the flames on its head. So, she pushed herself up to her feet and picked up her... cane, she guessed, turning to find Greeney was doing the same who gave a nod to her.
They both knew the same and as such, quickly began to make their way to the elevator.
Only for both to stop once they saw the elevator...
Or... to put it more accurately, the elevator that had
just
arrived.
Both came to a halt as it did, seeing the elevator doors slowly open.
Revealing a certain adult that Six never wanted to see again...
The Janitor.
Clad in his same brown coat, stubby appearance and unnaturally long arms along with its bowling bowl head.
The monster emerged from the elevator, hands feeling the walkway in front of him like an insect’s antenna seeking the way forward.
A way that was directly heading for them and they had no way to avoid the thing.
Six quickly turned again, motioning for the guard to follow back into the room, even as she saw the wax man stumbling into the room, face still ablaze. Yet, such sounds made the Janitor suddenly stop and sniff the air, turning its massive head to face its ear, listening to the screaming of the adult.
But once it did, that made the Janitor move.
It released a surprised cry, one that the Yellow Devil knew well and began to suddenly walk towards them.
Which in turn, made them run.
Greeney quickly broke into a run and Six broke into a quickened hobble, cane serving as her leg and creating a series of loud bangs as she did so. Thankfully, the sounds of the adult burning seemed to mask their running, as the Janitor didn’t seem to react to them...
Yet.
But that didn’t mean that it wouldn’t.
Which is why as soon as they entered the room, they dove for the table again, hiding underneath it as the long-armed adult made its way into the room. It then stood for a second, locating the other of its il as it thrashed about trying to put out the fire on its face.
The Janitor once more moved, this time reaching out and grabbing the adult’s shoulder, forcefully dragging the adult towards a corner of the room.
A corner, which was in the way of the door...
Which meant they couldn’t get out.
Great...
Worse, the Janitor shoved a stack of cages to the side, causing a loud screeching but revealing a slightly rusted sink behind it.
Six’s eyes widened.
The damn thing was about to put the adult out.
Meaning they didn’t have much time left...
But where could they...?
Six felt a tap on her shoulder, finding the guard to be pointing the other side of the room and at one thing in particular.
The chute...
It was a gamble, one that could very easily back fire...
But that choice did they have?
So, with a reluctant sigh, she nodded and motioned for the boy to help push the cage he had used to get up on the desk. He nodded in response and the pair soon began to push the cage towards the chute.
Or... Greeney did at least, given Six’s injury made pushing incredibly difficult.
She helped regardless however...
As the Janitor helped put out the fire on the wax man’s face...
Before the pair of adults suddenly became aware of the noise of screeching metal against the floor, the sound of running water ceasing as they did.
Greeney finished pushing the cage in place as they did, quickly climbing the cage and jumping for the handle of chute, pulling it open with an audible ‘clang.’
Something which immediately caused the Janitor to crack its neck towards them, a low-pitched screech leaving its sharp-toothed maw. Then, the boy climbed into the chute, turning to wait for Six as she climbed the cage as fast as she could.
That however, unfortunately meant that her cane banged against the cage, producing a very loud noise.
Which resulted in the obvious...
That was to say, the adult that patrolled the lower depths once more screeching like a strangled owl and walking towards them. At the same time, the waxy adult lifted its face from the sink, revealing a singed face that still bubbled slightly, yet its gaze of hatred was very much apparent.
Another reason on a long list to move.
Which is why the teen quickly jumped for the chute, the boy grabbing her arm and helping her up. He then began to pull her back and Six felt herself entering the chute...
Right as the Janitor grabbed her leg.
Thankfully, it wasn’t the injured one, but she was still being held by two separate ways and one of them was much stronger than the other.
Which began a short-lived tug of war...
Very short.
Because why would she wait for something to happen?
Instead, she chose to stab the adult’s hand with her cane, the metal easily able to pierce the flesh of the adult. The Janitor released a surprised cry in return, letting go of her leg and allowing the guard to pull her into the chute...
A bit too hard...
Indeed, whilst Six knew that stabbing the adult would make it let go, she didn’t factor in that the boy was still pulling her.
Result?
She was pulled into the chute with great force, impacting against Greeney as they both tumbled over one another.
Then... the chute slid closed...
And they both fell into the darkness below...
Mono stared at the adult with eyes of hatred and anger, lips forming the words he wanted to say.
“I have nothing to say to
you
.” He spat at the adult, earning a sigh from the Lady.
“Do you not, I find that hard to believe Broadcaster...” She questioned with a flick of her hand. “Have you not always been a stubborn, curious one, always wanting something but never knowing what?”
The teen narrowed his eyes. “You know nothing about me...” He replied with a hiss, lips pulled back to reveal teeth. “And stop calling me that, I’m nothing like him...”
“Truly?” The Lady questioned, tilting her head. “Even though you share such similar abilities, you question your likeness to him?”
He snorted in reply. “And you’re supposed to be the
real
Lady?” The boy questioned, repeating what he had learned from Six.
The mistress of the Maw paused at that, seemingly digesting his words. “And what do you know of that?” She probed, earning a shake of the head.
“Nothing for you.” Mono replied, a hint of amusement to his words.
A disappointed hum came from the Lady, who sat back in her chair again. “Then let us switch topics...” She stated, hand opening like a flower.
“What do you think you’re here for?”
He scoffed. “You already said it, what are you trying to-”
“I find that hard to believe...” The Lady interrupted, hand that was raised stretching outwards and reaching for a bottle mounted on a table on the other side with a tendril. “Not the least because of your lack of knowledge of this place...”
Mono narrowed his eyes. “This place?” He questioned with disgust. “Why would I
want
to know anything of this place?”
The Geisha stared at him for a second, then seemed to sigh. “This is an important place... Mono...” She spoke, seeming to correct herself as she spoke. “More important than you realize...”
His eyes widened. “You know who I am?”
She scoffed. “Really? Did you forget what I spoke of, how you were meant to be here?” She questioned with amusement.
Mono tilted his head. “Your... master?”
The Lady seemed to smile below her mask as she nodded.
He sat himself straight. “The Maw...” He stated.
At his words, the mistress became still, the eye slits of the mask seeming to burrow into his own. “What...” The Lady hissed at him.
Mono narrowed his eyes. “The Maw... the one you serve.” The bag-headed teen repeated. “It’s alive, isn’t it?”
The Lady remained silent for a second, before she seemed to regain herself. “You speak nothing but gibberish, words conjured from your fear...”
He stared at her hard at that, focusing on her.
Ther was something there, something below the surface that she was trying to keep secret.
So... he decided to seek after it.
Like he always did.
“What about the Eyes then?” He inquired, leaning forward in his chair. “Do you serve them?”
Once more, the mistress of the Maw froze and locked onto him with a dangerous glare. “You would best keep your tongue still Broadcaster, lest you-”
“The... cycles... what are they?” He interrupted, raising his voice to challenge the adult.
Of course, he didn’t believe what he had actually spoken, but he knew it was something that would get a reaction.
Which it did, as the Lady seemed to growl under her mask, leaning forward. “You speak of things that don’t exist, cease your-”
“You said I was wanted here, that your master wanted me here...” The boy continued, even as the Lady seemed to grow in rage. “That means there is someone here, someone you serve, someone stronger than-”
“
ENOUGH!”
The shout from the adult startled him, as the Lady shot from her seat and nearly crashed her mask into his own, the fox mask nearly breaking his face with the speed she had done so. He looked into her black void of slits, seeing darkened mist leak from them, as her chest rose and fell with anger.
“Where is she?” The Geisha questioned.
He blinked at her. “What-”
The Lady smashed her hand next to him, shadows leaking from it. “
Where is the girl, clad in yellow and gifted like you?”
Six...
She was wanting...
“I don’t know who you’re talking about...” He told the adult, knowing that whatever the monster wanted from her specifically couldn’t be good. “I only came here with-”
“
Do not lie to me...”
The adult hissed, bringing her hand down near his face, the shadows within licking his skin and causing it to flair up in pain. “
You are close to suffering
my
wrath.”
Mono snorted in reply. “And who are you to say that, what makes you special, different from the rest of
them?”
He inquired, venom leaking from his words.
The Lady’s angered gaze stared at him for a moment before she spoke again. “Special?” She repeated to him, forcing air from her nose. “I am the Lady of the Maw, special does not do my title justice...”
A pause then came from her before she continued. “But... being special...” Her tone changed somewhat, something different within her hidden eyes. “Is not always something you want.”
“You should know that, for you were the one who caused so much that was needed for the-”
‘
Ring.’
The sudden loud ringing sound broke the monster from her speech, head snapping in the direction of the annoying chime as Mono winced from it. The Lady then glanced at him for a second before she stood from her chair and made her way over to where the sound was coming from.
That was to say, a large box like contraption mounted on the wall, a dial of some kind in the center, whilst something on the side hung with a cable and attached to a strange curved device. The mistress of the Maw approached the contraption and pulled the curved apparatus from the box before placing it to her ear.
Then, she began to speak into it...
And stranger still, Mono could barely hear something talk back.
Just what the hell was that?
Was she communicating with something, did the strange device allow her to do so?
If so, why hadn’t he seen anything else like it before?
It didn’t make any sense to him.
Yet, as he watched, the boy noticed something...
Something moving, just out of the corner of his eye.
It was barely noticeable, visible to only those who would know how to pick up on such things.
Which he did, given that he knew what was moving...
Though... that also meant he was also shocked by what he was seeing.
Hidden beneath the piano and behind the leg, the teen could barely make out the form of his trusted friend...
Alle.
She was here, in the room with them, keeping to the shadows to not alert the Lady.
Yet, so many questions ran through his mind.
How was she here?
How had she escaped?
Did the Ferryman drop her?
Did she escape herself?
What had happened?
Questions that ran through his mind at a mile a minute...
Yet...
One stuck out among the rest, an answer perhaps provided.
The Ferryman.
He remembered how the adult had used the flesh on its face to point at the Lady, seemingly implying that he needed to keep his attention on the Lady.
Mono hadn’t known why.
But now?
The teen had a theory.
Had the adult copied Alle?
Was the ‘Alle’ in the cage not even her, simply a model made by the adult’s own flesh...
But if that were so...
Why?
Why would it do such a thing?
Yet, he interrupted his thoughts as Alle began to move, silently walking across the floor and to the bookcase that sat to the left of where the Lady’s chair was. Then, the bodyguard climbed the shelf, all the while the mistress kept talking.
Finally, the bodyguard reached the top, just in time to see the Lady put down the device.
Alle then pressed herself down against the shelf, as the boy snapped his gaze to the adult.
He couldn’t let her know what was happening...
So, he kept his gaze still, as the Lady once more walked over to the boy and sat down, seemingly calm again, yet something else in her bones.
“It seems as though I do not need your answer Broadcaster...” The Lady spoke, a smile on her words. “For the one called Six has been found and caught.”
His eyes widened. “You’re lying...” He retorted.
A small laugh came from the Lady. “Why would I lie about such thing, especially regarding someone who you hate?”
Mono scoffed at her. “And how do you know I hate her?” He questioned, narrowing his eyes. “You don’t know either of us...”
The Geisha leaned forward. “I know your legend, your history...” She stated with eerie calmness. “For you and her are linked, pieces needed for what is-”
‘Smash
.’
He flinched, as did the adult.
Though... after the sound passed, the adult did a little more than him.
That was to say, pieces of glass and porcelain dropped from the adult’s head, as the vase thrown down upon it coated her head. Then, the Lady seemed to shake for a few seconds before she tipped forward, nearly hitting his chair as she succumbed to unconsciousness.
But he could not question it for long...
Not as Alle quickly made her way down the bookshelf and towards him, the evidence of what she had done strewn about. As she did, the boy noticed his bindings seeming to... loosen slightly and felt something about them change, like something had been lifted.
He didn’t question it however, not as Alle mounted the chair he was on and drew her sword, already beginning to cut the bindings. As she did however, he felt the need to speak.
“Alle, what are you doing here, how did you-” He began, but was cut off as she spoke.
“We can talk later, especially about what you and that thing said...” Alle cut off, finishing the bindings off and pulling him to his feet. “Right now... we need to leave.”
Mono nodded, he couldn’t argue with that.
So, he followed after her as she ran for the lamp on the wall, the one that opened the secret door that led out of the room.
As they did, the adult in the room already began to stir...
The bodyguard then climbed the strange metal model that resembled the Maw, jumping from it to the light and seeing the door slide into the floor. Both then made their way into the room, running through it as they made their way to where they needed to be.
That was to say, the others...
They needed to be warned.
Though... as they did, a pair of eyes flashed open behind a mask of wood...
Eyes, that quickly narrowed in fury, as their owner stood to their feet.
They would not escape her...
“
They best not little one...”
“Otherwise, this one shall reconsider what your purpose is...”
That would not happen...
The pair then made their way to the library, entering to see...
No one...
Where were-
‘
Click.’
The lights flicked off before their eyes and Mono already knew why...
They needed to run...
Now.
Something he quickly did as he gestured for his friend to follow, who shouted after him as he did so.
“What about the others?” Alle questioned with concern.
“We don’t know where they are Alle!” He replied, descending the stairs with haste.
“All we can do is hope that they-”
Hehehehehehe...
No, not again.
They didn’t need it right now...
And they didn’t have the-
‘
Click.’
A beam of light emerged from Alle’s hand, one that illuminated the way through the room and into the hallway he sought.
Huh.
Seems as though Alle had the flashlight...
How had she...?
No, questions for later...
Right now?
Run.
Which is what they did, running through the halls, even as the sounds of distorted kids laughing came from every angle.
Yet, that didn’t matter, not as much as the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps to where they were.
He knew only one place that could help...
The vents, the ones they had come in through.
It would be impossible for the monster to chase them there...
They just needed to reach it.
So, he kept running, even as the sound of giggling got closer behind them.
Something which served to only make him run faster, as it did for Alle.
The pair then reached the room they had come in through, seeing the same hole where the books had been pushed from and where they needed to go.
So, they both began to climb the shelf, books thrown to the ground as they ascended...
Even as the kids kept laughing at them....
And as the Lady got closer to them.
But they reached the vent all the same, looking back and seeing the Lady emerge from the hallway, mask blank yet conveying the anger and fury she felt.
Now how would she-
Hehehehehehehehehe...
His eyes widened as he looked down.
They were climbing the shelfs, like them.
Something he counter-acted, by quickly crawling through the vents, Alle doing the same.
It did not take long for them to reach the shaft where they had entered, only this time something was missing...
That was to say the elevator.
How were they going to...
The sound of banging echoed behind them and Mono quickly gestured for Alle to jump for the cable overhead again.
They couldn’t waste time, a sentiment shared by Alle as she offered no argument, jumping for the cable and swinging for the wall of the shaft, allowing him to jump for it...
Right as the shadows caught up to him.
Meaning?
They grabbed the back of his jacket, if only barely...
But enough to stop his momentum.
Causing him to fall...
If only for a little while, before he realized what was happening and scrambled for anything, something to break his fall.
Which turned out to be a random bar that was sticking out of the wall, allowing him to hang without issue.
But now what would they-
‘
Bang.’
The sound rang out, forcing his head upwards...
Only to see what he didn’t want to.
That being the shadows, leaping for his friend across from them, who struck them with her sword, easily able to cast them to the abyss below.
But there were a lot of shadows...
And soon enough...
One got through.
As it dove for her, grabbing her shoulders of boney armour...
Before she was pulled downwards with it...
Falling downwards past him...
Yet too far for him to reach.
But he didn’t care.
Not as launched himself from the bar to grab her mid-air.
He didn’t know what he would do after that.
Yet, the boy didn’t care.
He wasn’t letting his friend die, not from simple fall, not from some shadows...
Unfortunately, in his haste to save her, he hadn’t thought of two things.
One, that they were still falling...
Two, he hadn’t seen the angle he had kicked off from.
Result?
He barely had a second to see the slowly spinning fan in the wall, bigger than him, yet unprepared for his weight as he smashed into it...
Before going through it, to the other side...
And embracing darkness from pain...
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Queen Amidala makes no headway with the Senate, same as last time. Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon, and Anakin accompany her back to Naboo, also in keeping with the last time. But they add two to their numbers. Master Dooku and Shmi Skywalker.
“We’re going to war,” Qui-Gon had told Shmi, and Obi-Wan could have told him that wasn’t a winning argument, especially seeing as he was bringing Shmi’s son into that very war.
But Shmi had met his gaze evenly and said, “We help those who need it. That is the code.”
And that was that.
#
Obi-Wan keeps track of similarities and differences as Naboo happens again. It’s…odd. With his other missions; Melida/Daan, Mandalore, those were different enough from the first time that he didn’t lose himself. He loses himself sometimes here.
He reaches for the steadying comfort of his master, and it’s Dooku who responds. He falls into step behind Qui-Gon and then realizes he’s shadowing the wrong Jedi. By the time they infiltrate the palace, Obi-Wan has a headache.
And when the party splits, Master Dooku sticks with the queen to help her negotiate a new treaty, while Obi-Wan follows Qui-Gon to where Darth Maul is waiting. Obi-Wan shouldn’t. He should send Master Dooku in his place. Or have Qui-Gon and Dooku swap.
But Obi-Wan is selfish. He knows how this fight went in one lifetime, and he has spent years preparing to make sure it would go a different way in this one.
Still, when he sees Maul, waiting for them, something in Obi-Wan’s chest tightens. Fear rises up, thick enough that he chokes on it. It’s enough that Master Dooku sends a wave of reassurance. He bolsters Obi-Wan’s strength with his own, and it’s enough for Obi-Wan to join the fight.
Even with all of Obi-Wan’s training, Maul is a formidable opponent. It doesn’t help that Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon don’t fight seamlessly together in this timeline. And it certainly doesn’t help that Maul recognizes early on that they’re each other’s weaknesses.
Maul doesn’t have to worry about an ally. Even if he had one, he wouldn’t care about harming them. Maul spins his saber and attacks in a way that forces Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon to either risk hurting each other or retreat.
Qui-Gon brings his lightsaber down in a powerful, two-handed swing, and Maul leaps out of range. Only a last-moment dive and roll keeps Obi-Wan from taking Qui-Gon’s blow to the shoulder.
They—
They can’t win this fight.
The revelation causes him to stumble. Obi-Wan brings his lightsaber up in time to block Maul’s attack, but he can’t block out his thoughts. He and Qui-Gon cannot win this fight.
Well.
Maul attacks Qui-Gon with deadly speed and grace. Qui-Gon defends against each strike, but he’s slower and slower with each movement. Another few minutes, and he’ll stumble. Obi-Wan sees the ray shields turn off. He takes a deep breath and then raises a hand and sends his former master flying through the air.
Maul’s saber scorches the floor where Qui-Gon had been standing. He looks up, surprised, to see his quarry so far away. And then the shields come up again, and Maul’s surprise gives way to delight. He turns to Obi-Wan, who still has his hand out-stretched, proof of what he just did.
Obi-Wan holds his lightsaber out to guard.
“I have the darkside.” Maul prowls forward, and he calls the dark around him like a smothering blanket. “You cannot hope to defeat me.”
“I trained under the greatest living master of Makashi,” Obi-Wan says. He is uniquely suited to this fight. And if he doesn’t have to worry about Qui-Gon, he can truly unleash his decades of knowledge. Obi-Wan smiles, calm, like he had been before his duel with Vader.
Maul hesitates, as if he doesn’t like Obi-Wan’s confidence.
“Come now,” Obi-Wan taunts, and he is General Kenobi now, who faced Ventress and Grievous, who dared them to come at him in order to protect his men. “I’m one Jedi padawan. I heard fear leads to hate. Is that the darkside’s secret? You’re all afraid?”
“You don’t scare me!” Maul bellows and then charges, reckless with his stung pride and his fury.
Obi-Wan has trained in Makashi with Dooku, but he is a master of Soresu in his own right. He meets Maul’s attack and holds his ground. When Maul spins and sweeps his saber out, Obi-Wan leaps over the blade.
He lands on his feet and then holds his saber out in a defensive position again.
Maul attacks relentlessly. Obi-Wan turns each attack away. With each success Obi-Wan has, Maul grows more unhinged. He becomes sloppy with his saber. More importantly, he becomes predictable, falling into the comfortable and the familiar.
Obi-Wan waits until he understands the pattern and then he goes on the offensive. It’s his turn to move with speed and purpose, to drive Maul back. There is no echo here, no shadow of his former self that Obi-Wan sees in his peripheral vision. He fought Maul with desperation in his first lifetime.
In this one, Obi-Wan is confident.
He will have to bisect Maul higher up this time. Cut through his hearts. There will be no resurrection for him. He will not harm Satine. He will not track Obi-Wan to Tatooine.
This time, he will fucking die.
Obi-Wan pulls from the Force to bolster his movements. The Force flows through him. There’s no hint of darkness, even as Maul radiates it. Obi-Wan isn’t motivated by fear or hatred. He isn’t even motivated by revenge.
Duty.
Honor.
Necessity.
He drives forward. Distantly, he hears someone shout his name. In his mind, someone tries to reach him, but he cannot afford the distraction. He is one with the Force. And the Force is one with him.
His lightsaber cuts through flesh with barely more resistance than it cuts through air. He aimed better this time, and his blade cuts through both of Maul’s hearts. The Zabrak falls to the floor in pieces. His cauterized flesh burns and the odor is enough to make Obi-Wan gag.
He stumbles back as he coughs. His hand comes away speckled with blood.
He looks down and sees the hilt of a knife sticking out of his mid-section. Where had that come from?
On the floor, several feet away, is half of Maul’s saber. The other half is nowhere to be seen. Obi-Wan doesn’t remember that part of the fight.
Had Maul
stabbed
him?
Obi-Wan sinks to his knees, because he isn’t sure he’s capable of standing.
From there, it only makes sense to lie the rest of the way down.
He bleeds copiously from his wound. It must be why the world goes hazy around him.
When his vision clears again, his head is cradled in two large hands. He blinks up at the concerned face of Qui-Gon.
“Oh,” Obi-Wan says. His head is in Master Jinn’s lap. It is Obi-Wan dying this time around. “This is a change.”
“Shh,” Qui-Gon says. “Save your strength.”
“I hope I’ve done enough,” Obi-Wan says.
Palpatine is still out there, plotting, and no one knows to be wary of him. But Qui-Gon lives, and he’ll protect Anakin. Master Dooku has stayed with the Order, stayed in the light. It’s enough. It has to be enough.
Obi-Wan closes his eyes.
#
“Now do you believe me?” Master Dooku is angry. His fury resonates through Obi-Wan’s bones. Obi-Wan’s teeth chatter, like he’s all bone with no flesh to support it.
Master Yoda’s ears flatten, cowed.
More anger. It’s tinged with fear.
No, Obi-Wan thinks. That path leads to darkness.
Protective fury, white-hot. It rips through Obi-Wan’s mind. Like a concussive blast, his ears ring afterward. He strains to hear muffled sounds and then they echo in his head.
They drag him back down.
#
“Always two, there are,” Yoda says.
I know
, Obi-Wan thinks.
I can name the second
. He tries to reach out, but his mind is trapped. There’s a cage around him. He pounds against it until his hands bleed. He screams until his voice gives out.
Drugs. They blur his mind and slow his responses.
No. No!
He fights against them, but they pull him into numbness. He knows, but he can’t act.
With no other options, he drops his shields and screams.
#
Obi-Wan wakes up.
He can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever die.
His hands feel oddly light. He looks at them. They’re the same as he remembers. Calloused. Strong. Scarred.
Empty.
And that is what’s bothering him. When was the last time he woke up in the Halls of Healing and his master wasn’t at his bedside?
Naboo.
Qui-Gon!
“Easy!” Healer Che rushes in, and she plants a hand on his chest and holds him down against the bed. “Easy, Obi-Wan. I need you to relax.”
“Qui-Gon?” Obi-Wan rasps. His throat feels dry, tight, as if something had scraped the inside of it.
“Healthy and safe,” Healer Che promises. “He’s with Anakin in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. The boy is still mesmerized by water.”
Obi-Wan nods. That’s good. Qui-Gon is safe. Something niggles at the back of his mind. Qui-Gon isn’t the one who holds his hand when he’s hurt. No. It’s someone else. Master. But not Qui-Gon?
“Dooku?” Obi-Wan asks.
“Meetings with the Council,” Healer Che answers.
Obi-Wan slumps back against his bed.
“I’ll tell him you’re awake,” Healer Che says. “He’s been worried.”
“Maul?” Obi-Wan asks.
“You need to rest,” Healer Che says.
He grips her hand. It’s tight enough that it’ll bruise, that it must hurt, but he can’t make himself let go. “Is he dead?” Is he coming back?
“You killed him,” Healer Che says gently. “The Council had a pyre for him. He’s one with the Force now. It will give him the peace life never did.”
Safe, Obi-Wan thinks.
“Yes,” Healer Che says, “You’re safe.”
Oh. Obi-Wan’s lost his filter. He should sleep again and hope it’s returned when he wakes up again.
#
The next time Obi-Wan wakes up, his head is clearer. Unfortunately, it means he’s aware of his body and how much pain it’s in.
“The wound itself was bad, and the blade was poisoned,” Healer Che explains. And then she bats Obi-Wan’s hands away from his torso. “Quit poking at it.”
Right now, all Obi-Wan can see is the white bandage covering the wound. “Will it scar?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I have scars too!” Anakin rushes into the room, surprising both Obi-Wan and Healer Che. Anakin, of course, doesn’t notice the alarm of either of the adults. He scrambles onto the chair next to Obi-Wan’s bed and then pulls up his tunics to show off a rough patch of scarred skin on his abdomen. “That’s from the first time I rolled a pod! Wanna see my others?”
“Only if you tell me the stories,” Obi-Wan says, answering before Healer Che can scold Anakin. He is exhausted, yes, and he is in pain, but Anakin provides a welcome distraction. If his exuberance is also enough to distract from who
isn’t
here…
Well.
#
Healer Che is sneaky. Once she realizes Obi-Wan is willing to indulge Anakin, she appoints Anakin as Obi-Wan’s caretaker. It’s Anakin who hands Obi-Wan shakes and pleads with him to “just drink a little bit of it, please? For me?”. It’s Anakin who chatters to Obi-Wan to keep boredom from driving him out of the Halls early.
If sometimes Obi-Wan coaxes Anakin onto his lap and cries into the boy’s tunics, because he’s so bright and kind and innocent, no one says anything about it.
No one says anything about the conspicuous absence of Obi-Wan’s master, either.
He came by once, to see Obi-Wan awake with his own eyes, and share a few words, and then he apologized for being forced to work and left again. Something is wrong. When Obi-Wan’s head isn’t filled with Anakin’s stories, Obi-Wan turns over this puzzle.
Is Dooku angry that Obi-Wan prioritized Qui-Gon’s safety over his own?
Is he angry that Obi-Wan bisected his opponent?
Does he fear he’s losing Obi-Wan to the darkside?
Even Qui-Gon has spent more time at Obi-Wan’s side than Dooku. The first time Qui-Gon came, he thrust a potted plant at Obi-Wan and then left again. The second time, he stayed longer, if only because Anakin made himself at home on Qui-Gon’s lap and refused to get up.
Now, master and padawan are common visitors.
“Look!” Anakin turns to show off his stubbly little braid. “And Teacher Jinn has a matching one!” He tugs, not very gently, on the single braid nestled in Qui-Gon’s hair.
Obi-Wan can’t help his chuckle. It’s a sign of how far his recovery has come that it doesn’t hurt. It pulls a bit, but he doesn’t tear any stitches or open the wound again. His laughter trickles into a smile. “It’s very plain,” he tells Anakin, mock serious.
Anakin picks up on the tone, because he doesn’t deflate. Qui-Gon recognizes the impish humor behind it, because he starts to gather the breath to deflect.
Obi-Wan’s quicker. “You have a bead in yours. And look at mine.” Obi-Wan holds his own braid out so Anakin can see it.
“Woah.” Anakin leans forward, one hand braced on the railing of Obi-Wan’s bed and his knees digging into Qui-Gon’s thigh. “Your braid is
long
. And colorful!”
“It tells a story,” Obi-Wan says. “When I’m knighted, my braid will be cut. Traditionally, the padawan presents their braid to their ma—teacher to thank them for their guidance and a reminder of their partnership.”
“Cool,” Anakin breathes. He taps one of the threads. “This one feels sad.”
“Does it?” Obi-Wan glances from Anakin to Qui-Gon. “Your empathy levels are quite high, Anakin.”
“My what?”
“You feel things very strongly,” Obi-Wan says. “Not only your own feelings but others as well.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Anakin scoffs as if this is common knowledge. “Mom told me some people are born with big hearts, because they need to hold a lot of feelings. How come your string is sad?”
Obi-Wan feels for the thread Anakin references. He can also feel the resonance. His empathy levels have always been high as well. It meant he and Anakin, when they really got going, turned into a feedback loop, escalating each other until their emotions reached dangerous levels.
Anakin has Qui-Gon now, Obi-Wan reminds himself. He rubs his thumb over the thread. “This marks my visit to Quabbin. It wasn’t a typical mission. Teacher Dooku took me to a place where Jedi nearing the end of their lives would go to find peace. It was supposed to be a lesson in letting go.” Obi-Wan allows himself a small laugh. “I told Teacher Dooku I refused to learn the lesson.”
“You can do that?” Anakin asks.
“Say no?” Obi-Wan nods. “You should always take the time to reflect on why you’re saying no. In my case, I did not agree with the lesson, so I did not learn it.”
“That was after Melida/Daan,” Qui-Gon says softly, as if he knows exactly why Dooku would have taken Obi-Wan to a Jedi hospice.
“I know I cannot save everyone,” Obi-Wan says. Cerasi was proof of that. Even in a galaxy where he was given a second chance, Obi-Wan could not keep everyone alive. “But it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. And it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t grieve when I fail.”
Qui-Gon’s expression is warm and open, proud of Obi-Wan in a way he rarely showed when Obi-Wan had been his padawan. “We need more Jedi like you, Obi-Wan. I made a grave misjudgment of you.”
“You didn’t,” Obi-Wan says. “You judged me as I was, and you were correct. But that scared, angry boy grew up. I am grateful for the opportunity Teacher Dooku gave me, but your fears were not unfounded.”
“Whatchya talking about?” Anakin twists between them, unhappy at being left out. Qui-Gon winces as Anakin’s knees grind into his thigh.
“When I was a little older than you are, I asked Qui-Gon to be my teacher,” Obi-Wan says. “He said no.”
“What?” Anakin gasps, outraged on Obi-Wan’s behalf.
“It all worked out,” Obi-Wan says, because while he’s flattered by Anakin’s loyalty, he doesn’t want to cause Qui-Gon any more pain or guilt. “Besides, if Qui-Gon was my teacher, he couldn’t have been
your
teacher.”
Anakin stills. “Like in your dream?”
One of these days, when Obi-Wan isn’t recovering from being tortured or recovering from near-death, he’s going to have to find out exactly how much of Obi-Wan’s “dream” that Anakin saw.
“Right now, a teacher can’t have more than one student. But that’s a silly rule, and there are some of us who are trying to change it,” Obi-Wan says. He carefully doesn’t look at Qui-Gon.
“Really?” Anakin perks up again. “Teacher Jinn likes to bend the rules. If I find a friend, can we both be your students?” Anakin turns to plead his case with Qui-Gon.
Obi-Wan laughs at the chaos he’s caused and takes a few moments to breathe deeply and not think as Qui-Gon attempts to negotiate with an over-enthused nine-year-old.
Qui-Gon clears his throat. Obi-Wan looks over and realizes that Anakin’s now gone. It’s only him and Qui-Gon in the room. This isn’t exactly a positive development.
“They might let you take a second padawan,” Obi-Wan says. “I know the Council is worried about Anakin’s attachment. Having to share you with another padawan might help.”
“It took me many years to be ready for another padawan.” Qui-Gon speaks carefully, as if worried about their shared, painful history. “I’m not sure I’m ready for two. But you weren’t in the Council Chambers for most of our discussions regarding Anakin. Did you learn of their doubts from your dream?”
Obi-Wan shrugs. He doesn’t want to discuss his other life.
“How much did you see?” Qui-Gon asks.
“I saw Naboo,” Obi-Wan answers. “I saw you take on Maul alone while I was trapped behind the ray shields.” Obi-Wan stares up at the ceiling. “I saw you die. And then I avenged you. I know what you’re going to say. Focus on the present. But I can’t. The future is always in motion, and I knew enough to change it. You lived. I lived. A good day for our side.”
“You were willing to trade your life for mine.”
Obi-Wan shrugs again. “I saw a future without you in it. It isn’t a future we want. I’m tired now.” Obi-Wan deliberately turns away from Qui-Gon.
Thankfully, Qui-Gon takes the hint and, for once in his life, doesn’t argue with Obi-Wan.
#
The Force is heavy, as if it’s weighted with possibility on the day Obi-Wan is released from the Halls of Healing. Master Dooku is there when he’s released, and he offers Obi-Wan a smile and then his arm.
“I’ve missed you,” Obi-Wan says.
“I’m sorry.” Guilt and regret flow across their bond before Dooku consciously yanks them both back. “As I’m sure you can imagine, the Council was quite busy after another encounter with a Sith.”
“They believe now?” Obi-Wan asks. If they believe in the Sith, they’ll know there’s a second one out there. It puts him one step closer to having allies on his side against Palpatine. With Maul gone, Obi-Wan doesn’t have long to act before Palpatine seeks out a new apprentice.
“No,” Master Dooku says. His voice is clipped, but he isn’t angry with Obi-Wan. It’s the Council that has him unhappy. It isn’t the first time, and Obi-Wan doubts it’ll be the last. “And since the body was burned, there’s no additional proof. Only what we saw and felt.”
Obi-Wan notes that they don’t turn toward their quarters. They must be going to the Council Chambers, then. “They want my testimony?” He’s surprised he hasn’t been asked already. During the Clone Wars, he gave more than one report from a med-bed.
“Patience, padawan,” Master Dooku says, and there’s that tinge of pride-guilt-regret again.
Obi-Wan is disquieted as they enter the Council Chambers. Even seeing Qui-Gon and Anakin there doesn’t put him at ease. Anakin, small and quiet at Qui-Gon’s side, checks to see if anyone is watching and then waves. Obi-Wan offers him a smile in response.
And then he bows to the Council. “You have requested my presence?” he asks.
“This is a joyous occasion,” Mace says.
Oh, Obi-Wan thinks as Master Dooku faces him, rather than standing two steps ahead and to the right.
“You are the first Jedi to kill a Sith in a thousand years,” Master Dooku says and there’s a hint of defiance in his tone, as he reminds everyone in the room that it was a
Sith
and not a darksider. “But you are so much more than a single battle. This is proof.” He touches Obi-Wan’s braid, a summary of Obi-Wan’s successes and struggles over the years.
“I had a good teacher,” Obi-Wan says.
“I told you before we left for Naboo that you deserved to be knighted. I held back and so you had to do something so great, I could not put it off any longer. Raising you has been my greatest joy.”
Obi-Wan smiles, unable to form a verbal response. He didn’t have this in his first life. He had been knighted after Qui-Gon’s death. It was done by the Council, Mace standing in for Qui-Gon. They spoke the traditional words, which Dooku and Obi-Wan do, but there was no personal touch.
There was no warmth flowing through the bond, affection and pride and nostalgia twined together. Obi-Wan didn’t have a bond last time, only the ragged remains of one, after Qui-Gon was ripped from Obi-Wan’s mind with his death.
In this time, Obi-Wan turns to present his back and his braid to his master. Dooku cuts the braid, and it’s long, but it isn’t heavy enough for Obi-Wan to feel so light after it’s gone.
When Obi-Wan turns around again, Dooku places the braid in Obi-Wan’s hand. “Welcome, Knight Kenobi,” Master Dooku says.
Obi-Wan’s smile grows. He looks at the coil of hair in his hand. And then he extends it to Dooku. Dooku reaches for him and then he curls Obi-Wan’s fingers into a fist around the braid.
Obi-Wan’s smile falters. “What?” he asks weakly.
Around the room, he feels the pings of surprise and alarm. Masters don’t refuse their padawan’s braids. It isn’t done.
“This is yours, you have earned it,” Master Dooku says. There is something distant in his gaze. He seems to pull away from Obi-Wan, without moving from where he stands at the center of the room.
It’s the bond, Obi-Wan realizes. Master Dooku is reeling in his side of the bond.
“What are you doing?” Obi-Wan asks. He grips the bond as tightly as he can, but it doesn’t matter. Bonds cannot be forced. If Master Dooku wants to break it, Obi-Wan can’t stop him.
“Knighting you was my final action as a member of the Jedi Order,” Master Dooku says. “Recent years have taught me the futility of affecting change from within. I will now urge change from without.”
Obi-Wan feels the pop in his mind, as the bond is plucked from its anchor. His mind is emptier, quieter, and he can’t help but scrabble at the space, like tonguing where a tooth used to be.
This can’t be happening again.
“Master, please.”
Why have you forsaken me?
“Be careful, Knight Kenobi,” Master Dooku says, and his voice is cold, like he’s already slipping into
Count
Dooku
. “The Jedi Code prohibits attachment.”
Obi-Wan presses his hands to either side of his head. There is no bond. Qui-Gon lives. Dooku lives. And Obi-Wan is unwanted.
He raises his gaze to the ceiling, even as he falls to his knees.
Why?
He demands of the Force.
Why?
The Force doesn’t answer.
Obi-Wan screams.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Luz yawned over her bowl of cereal, the sugar coated flakes already turning limp and soggy in their pool of soy milk. Her night had been on the rougher side, bad dreams jolting her awake every few hours. Fortunately, they were normal type nightmares instead of trauma ones. The fear faded quickly once she was awake, leaving her more annoyed by the interruption to her sleep than anything else.
At least she didn’t wake any of the others. As much fun as Nightmare Club meetings were, she preferred not to be the sole reason for them.
Stifling another yawn, Luz robotically shoveled another spoonful of Frosted Flakes into her mouth. Amity nudged her lightly, and Luz looked over to see concern in the other girl’s gold eyes.
“You okay?” her girlfriend asked softly, trying not to disturb the others’ conversations as the five witchlings sat at the kitchen table at the safehouse for breakfast. Hunter was the only one to look up, and he quickly turned back to his conversation with Willow and Gus when he realized the question didn’t concern him.
Luz nodded with a reassuring smile. “Restless night,” she offered with a shrug. “Not a bad one, just a restless one.” She knew Amity would understand the difference.
Amity smiled and nodded back. She ate a spoonful of her own cereal before asking, “You still up for our plans today?”
Luz scoffed playfully. “I’ve had insomnia for years, batata. It takes more than one night of bad sleep to knock me down.”
Amity rolled her eyes, her ears flicking in amusement as she turned back to her cereal, her shoulder leaning gently against Luz’s own.
They set off once their breakfast was finished, leaving the house to Dean’s frantic Halloween Eve preparations. He seemed absolutely determined that they would have the spookiest house on the block. He’d checked and re-checked that all of their decorations were in perfect condition, and he’d filled several plastic cauldrons with suckers and gummies and mini candy bars just waiting to be handed out to costumed kids. All name brands, too. No loser candy to be seen.
Luz really hoped they got a good number of trick-or-treaters tomorrow, or her brother was going to be very disappointed. She wondered absently if he’d gotten the chance to celebrate Halloween with her and Ben during that year she didn’t remember. She pushed the thought away quickly. She’d decided to forgive him, so there was no point in dwelling on it.
Vee was waiting for them when they got to the bus stop. She was in her usual human disguise with the addition of a gray fleece jacket that Luz suspected the basilisk was actually wearing to keep warm rather than being something she’d created with her shapeshifting. There was a definite chill in the air, a crisp breeze cutting through the faint warmth from the late October sun.
“Hey!” Vee called cheerfully, swinging her legs as she leaned back on the bench. “Morning, guys.”
“Good morning, Vee,” Willow responded, taking her role as spokesman for the group. “How are you doing?”
“Pretty good.” Vee stood up, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket. “You guys have the rebus?”
“Right here.” Luz pulled the scroll from the pocket of her grudgby jacket, cradling it carefully in her hand. She waited for her cousin’s thumbs up of acknowledgement before she stowed it away again, making sure it was secure. “Ready for a day of Human Realm exploration?” she asked, rocking back on her heels and slipping her hand into the pocket not holding the rebus to gently stroke Stringbean’s wooden head. Even in her dormant state, Luz could feel her Palisman’s appreciation for the gesture. It made her smile.
“You bet.” Vee grinned as the bus pulled up. The group of teens lined up to board as the doors opened with a soft hiss.
Luz dropped her fee in the slot, reasonably sure that her friends could handle paying their own fare without needing extra help. She waved absently to Jordan, who was knitting what looked like an oversized doggy sweater as she sat in the seat directly behind the driver. The hell demon waved back, a sly smirk on her face as she practically dared Luz to ask if she really was making a sweater for a hellhound.
Luz did not ask. She did not want to know.
They spent the day like any other group of teenagers out on the town with too much time and too little supervision.
They went to the park. Willow spun Hunter and Gus on the merry-go-round until Gus turned green and staggered away with his arms wrapped around his stomach. They laid on their backs in the grass and looked for patterns in the clouds.
Luz climbed a tree to rescue a trapped kite for a crying toddler and his very pregnant mother. Amity made friends with a very persistent squirrel that promptly tried to steal her bandana. Vee made what might have been a little house or might have been a funeral pyre out of stray twigs.
They wandered for a while after that, earning odd looks from adults who clearly wonder why the group aren’t in school where they belong. Thankfully nobody cared enough to question them, seeming to come to the conclusion that a group of teens possibly cutting class wasn’t their problem.
They found a little Hot Topic knock off called The Magic Circle, and were promptly thrown out of the store when Gus accidentally knocked over a barrel of crystals and Willow purposely poked another shopper in the butt with a plastic pitch fork. To be fair, Willow did offer to pay for damages. It wasn’t her fault that the bored looking sales clerk wouldn’t accept snails.
After that, they got some hot chocolate at Robin’s Roast Cafe and worked together to put a giant
KICK ME
sign on the back of the statue of Philip Wittebane that was set up across the street from it.
Luz thought they might have to run again when the barista and the manager from Robin’s Roast came out to see what they were doing, but the two women had just laughed and taken pictures of the end result. They seemed to think it was meant as a harmless Halloween prank. And it wasn’t like they’d really vandalized the statue. It was just a bit of posterboard Duct Taped to the stone.
They’d have to come back at night for some real vandalization.
Another quick trip on the bus, and they find their way to the Gravesfield County Zoo. Why a community as small as Gravesfield even has a zoo is a mystery to Luz, but she certainly wasn’t complaining. It brought back good memories of Uncle Bobby taking her to the Great Plains Zoo in Sioux Falls when she was a kid.
And while the Gravesfield Zoo did not seem to have her favorite animal from those trips–the African painted dogs–they did have a decent collection for their small size. Including a small pack of gray wolves, much to Hunter’s joy. They probably spent about half an hour in front of that exhibit, watching Hunter excitedly geek out with the handler who came out when she saw the group of kids admiring the wolves while she fed them. It was hard to tell which of them was having the most fun as Hunter soaked up as much information about the admittedly majestic animals as the zookeeper was willing to share.
Luz wondered if Hunter wanted to take Beast Keeping classes when he started at Hexside. He seemed to have a good head for them.
“Where to next?” Amity asked once they finally pried Hunter away from the wolves. The oldest witchling was still grinning brightly as he whispered his newly discovered wolf facts to himself. Willow had to hold onto his arm to keep him from walking into anything,
“Looks like they have penguins,” Luz suggested as she swung her and Amity’s joined hands. The cool fall weather and the fact that it was the middle of a weekday meant that there wasn’t much of a crowd. Mostly just parents with preschool-aged children and a few families that either homeschool or decided on an extra day off for a special treat.
“Those black and white swimming birds?” Willow asked, sounding interested. “Those are cute.”
“Guys,” Gus said seriously, shaking his head. He stopped, forcing everyone else to come to a halt as well, looking at him in confusion. “We’re in the
Human Realm,”
he stressed, as if he thought they might have forgotten. “There’s only one thing we need to see.” He pointed mock-imperiously up at the decorative arch that led to another enclosure.
A decorative arch that read
GIRAFFES
in bold capital letters.
Amity, Willow, Hunter, and Vee gasped in shock. Gus nodded resolutely, his arms crossed over his chest and his green beanie sitting crooked on his head.
Luz watched them all in amusement. Sure, she knew that giraffes were originally from the Boiling Isles–they’d studied the mass banishment in history class at Hexside. And while a lot of the history about the ‘Savage Ages’ they taught was Emperor approved bullshit, she couldn’t think of anything they would gain from making that particular event up–but she didn’t believe for a second that giraffes were worthy of the amount of fear her friends felt for them.
The things ate leaves and let themselves be considered simple animals instead of fighting for a place among the various monsters of the Human Realm. They were just not that scary.
Gus must have convinced the others, because Luz was broken out of her thoughts by her friends linking arms with resolved expressions. She did her best not to laugh as Amity added her to the chain, and all six of them headed into the giraffe exhibit.
Most of the giraffes were scattered around the tree filled enclosure, snacking on leaves and chilling in the sun. Conveniently, one of them was standing right by the wall, watching the approaching teens with blank disinterest. Luz wondered if this zoo offered visitors the chance to feed the giraffes like the Great Plains Zoo did, and if this one was just waiting for a hand out.
Luz watched in amusement as Gus slowly approached the lone giraffe while Amity, Willow, Vee, and Hunter all huddled together behind him and watched with wary eyes. None of them seemed to notice when Luz stepped off to the side, her hands tucked into the pockets of her grugeby jacket.
Gus took an audible deep breath before bowing politely at the animal.
“Greetings, Master Giraffe,” he said in his most formal tone. “I am Agustus Porter of the Boiling Isles. I wish to ask a moment of your time.”
The giraffe flicked its ear, giving no sign that it had understood his words. Maybe it hadn’t. Giraffes had been in the Human Realm for a long time. Maybe they’d lost their language abilities.
Gus slowly straightened up, his eyes still fixed on the giraffe. The giraffe continued to look unimpressed by his presence.
Gus turned to the others. Willow and Hunter shrugged while Vee and Amity continued to stare at the giraffe, now with slightly less apprehension.
Luz just shook her head in amusement.
“I guess it doesn't have anything to say?” Hunter suggested in a tone that was more question than statement.
“Guess not.” Vee sounded relieved.
They slowly started to creep away, still not noticing that Luz wasn’t with them. Willow started to follow the other four, but she paused and took out her camera to take a picture of the giraffe.
At the sight of the flash, the giraffe let out a sound that was somewhere between a roar and a screech. It opened its mouth far wider than should have been physically possible, revealing a second mouth ringed with shark-like teeth, a second pair of glowing red eyes set on stalks like a snail’s, and three sets of sharp pincers in various sizes.
It kinda reminded Luz of the creature from the
Alien
movies. Interesting. She wondered if one of the writers for that movie got on the wrong side of a giraffe at some point.
Her friends screamed and fled. Luz watched them go, her head tilted to the side.
“What’s their problem?” she asked, turning back to the giraffe.
The giraffe closed its mouth without making a single threatening gesture. It blinked placidly back at her, as docile as ever.
“That was an impressive trick, but you’re nowhere near as scary as a Leviathan,” she informed it.
The animal blinked its no-longer-glowing eyes at her as if to say
Fair enough
and ambled away to join its fellows in the trees.
A second later, Amity and Willow burst back in with twin cries of
“Luz!”
They each grabbed one of her arms and dragged her out of the giraffe exhibit, both of them still wide eyed with fear.
Luz politely refrained from laughing at them as they manhandled her away from the demon animals.
By the time they made it out of the zoo and caught a bus back to the more familiar areas of town, it was officially late enough to bother Masha at work.
Maybe bother wasn’t the right word, because Masha looked more than happy to see them when they walked in. “Hey, guys!” they called. They closed their book and sat back in their chair. They looked very official, sitting at their desk with a nameplate that bore their name and pronouns sitting in front of them.
“Hey, Masha,” Luz greeted, subtly nudging Vee when her cousin stumbled at the sight of her crush. “Nice digs.”
“Thanks.” Masha reached over and tapped their name plate with an easy grin. “I feel all professional now.”
“As you should,” Vee agreed when she got her voice back. “You are a modern day working enby.” The basilisk's face promptly went red, and Luz got the feeling that she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Masha laughed, their eyes soft as they smiled back at Vee. “Well, my moms are both modern day working women, so I have good examples.”
Luz and Amity exchanged amused looks and squeezed each other's hands. Luz could understand why Gus and Willow alternated between amusement and exasperation back before she and Amity got their acts together. Watching Masha and Vee was pretty entertaining.
“So what have you guys been up to?” Masha asked curiously.
“Oh, we went to the zoo,” Vee offered, playing with the sleeve of her fleece jacket.
“Yeah, and giraffes are terrifying!” Gus added with a shudder. “I can definitely see why our ancestors banished those guys.”
Masha blinked in confusion. “What?”
“Giraffes were originally from the Demon Realm,” Luz explained tiredly as her friends seemingly relived the trauma of seeing the animal’s other form. “They were banished to the Human Realm ages ago.”
“Huh. Okay, then.” Masha nodded slowly, brown eyes wide. “That’s a conspiracy even Jacob Hopkins never came up with.”
Luz shrugged. “They’re pretty harmless. But they apparently don’t care much for flash photography.”
“I will keep that in mind.” Masha shook their head, visibly deciding to change the topic. “So, what brings you to the Gravesfield Historical Society?”
“Do you have any old maps?” Amity asked.
Masha raised a brow with a playful smirk. “Blight, this is a historical society. Old maps are our specialty.”
“Do you know if there are any that look like this?” Luz carefully pulled the rebus out of her pocket and laid it out on the desk in front of her human friend.
Masha hummed in interest, sitting up in their seat. “Ooh, a rebus. Nice.”
“We found it in the old portal shack,” Hunter explained. “It looks like it might lead to an old stash of Caleb and Evelyn’s Titan Blood, but it’s outdated and we don’t know how it translates to modern day topography.”
Masha hummed. “I can see why that would be a problem,” they agreed, trailing their fingers lightly over the grid between the two sets of pictures. They frowned and and slowly rotated it until the scroll was sitting lengthwise on the desk. Suddenly, they grinned. “But I think I know where to start looking.”
“Really?” Gus asked excitedly.
Masha nodded as they pushed their chair back and stood up. “Yeah. Come this way.”
The group followed eagerly as the human led them to a large framed picture that hung on the wall right next to the records room labeled 1650-1750.
It was faded and frayed behind the glass, and looked like it had likely been hand drawn on parchment centuries ago. The title at the top read
Old Gravesfield,
and it was laid out in a simple grid with a few houses and a path leading from the forest to a large stone arch.
Masha held the rebus up against the framed map.
They matched.
“Looks like we have a starting point,” Willow grinned.
Masha chucked. “Come on, I’ll show you to the late 1600s maps. The historical society closes early tonight so that we can get ready for the Halloween Festival tomorrow, and you guys have a lot to sort through.”
Allen Fischer was starting to regret taking this case.
Not that he’d been all that convinced that there was a case to begin with. The Winchester Brothers might have an unfortunate habit of kick starting the apocalypse, but they were also about as elite as it got in the Hunter community. As much as Allen hated to admit it, it was highly unlikely that anything could set up shop in their own backyard without them taking notice.
Still, it was a nice opportunity to annoy the Winchesters and see how Bobby’s kid was getting on since her old man died. She was a sweet girl, even if Allen’s…caution…of children kept him from anything more than a passing familiarity with her. But Bobby Singer was a good man and a good Hunter, and his little girl deserved better than to be abandoned by the community she was raised in.
He was glad to see that Luz was doing okay. More than okay, judging from the group of friends she had over. Maybe the Winchesters really had managed to retire and give their little sister a chance at a normal life. It was the least they could do after all the shit they’d dragged that poor girl into over the years.
The sun was getting low by the time Allen finished asking questions in town. It had been…less than enlightening. Gravesfield was the definition of a sleepy little town, and all anyone seemed able to talk about was the upcoming Halloween celebration. He had seen Luz and her friends in passing a few times. He made sure they didn’t see him, but it was nice to know the girl was out cutting school and causing harmless mischief like any other kid.
Tired and a little grumpy, Allen decided to make another quick sweep of the woods before it got dark.
Aware that he was being contrary just to be contrary, he headed straight for the old cabin that Dean told him to stay away from. He wasn’t a monster, he wouldn’t mess with the kids’ game stuff. He just wanted to check that the antlered creature wasn’t lurking around there.
It was certainly an interesting clubhouse. Allen was a little confused by the weird bird face that was painted on the front door at roughly eye level. It wasn’t any kind of creature he recognized, but it had been years since he last played D&D.
The door creaked ominously as he pushed it open. There was a Devil’s Trap painted on the ceiling above the entryway, and another mostly hidden underneath a thin rug under the window. Allen nodded in approval. Good to know that Luz still knew to take basic protective measures.
The inside of the old shack was dim, the fading daylight barely making its way through the dingy windows. But from what he could see, it looked like a place where a group of teens would hang out. There were soft rugs and bean bag chairs set up in one corner, a table covered in papers and cards and art supplies set up in the middle of the room, and a big board with some kind of imaginary quest set up.
Allen hummed and pulled a flashlight from his pocket as he made his way through the main room and into the less lived-in areas of the house. His foot caught on something and he stumbled. He caught himself against the wall, hissing in pain as an exposed nail gauged into his palm. He hissed, tucking the flashlight under his chin as he dug a clean bandana from his pocket in an attempt to stop the bleeding and ward off any further infection. He’d have to stop by the ER for a Tetanus booster tomorrow. It had been a few years since his last one, and he certainly didn’t want to take any chances. Being a Hunter was dangerous enough without risking dying from lockjaw.
Allen froze, a knife appearing in his hand without conscious thought as a noise hit his ears. It was a sort of wet slithering sound, like a large snake moving through a swamp.
Allen dropped the bandana from his hand in favor of drawing his gun from its belt holster. His senses strained, eyes and ears wide open as he tried to pinpoint exactly where the sound was coming from.
Something brushed against his side. He jerked around, aiming the beam of the flashlight that was still pinned between his neck and shoulder at the floor just in time to see the talisman with his anti-possession symbol be carried away by something that he couldn’t see.
Adrenaline flooded his system, sharpening his senses.
“A black eyed bastard, huh?” he growled. “You lot are a dime a dozen these days.”
“Oh no.” The voice echoed around him, coming from everywhere and nowhere. It was definitely male, with a lilting New England accent. “I am simply a servant of the light, fighting against the dangers of the unclean. Just like you, I believe.”
Allen frowned. Ghost of a dead Hunter, maybe? Those were all too common, especially for solo Hunters who didn’t have anyone to properly salt and burn their bodies after they died.
But that didn’t explain why it took his anti-possessions symbol.
“What do you want?” Allen demanded. He reached carefully for his iron knife. It it was a vengeful spirit he was dealing with, that would be the best way to ward it off until he got the proper supplies from his truck.
“All I want is to finish what I started,” the voice replied. “And I’m afraid I will need your help to do so.”
Something struck at Allen right as his fingers closed around his iron knife. He slashed in the direction of the attack. He felt his knife make contact, but there was no sound of pain, barely any resistance.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t solid.
Another blow hit him from behind, managing to knock his flashlight from his neck. It hit the ground with a clatter, its beam falling across the mass of green-gray sludge that was rapidly gathering in front of him.
All at once, the sludge surged forward. Allen cried out, shooting desperately at it, but the bullets had no effect. The slime curled around the barrel of his gun, climbing higher until it wrapped completely around his injured hand.
“I thank you for your sacrifice,” the voice crooned. And Allen’s hand exploded in pain.
Allen Fischer screamed and fell to the ground as the world around him was consumed by sludge. It surged through his blood, choking him as it filled his lungs and curled around his bones, plucking at muscles and tendons like they were strings on a marionette.
Allen’s body climbed to its feet without his input, a smile on its face.
Its eyes were glowing blue.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The trip to Sumeru Academia had been exhausting. So many nights studying diligently to face the entrance test and get accepted had also been a journey in itself, one that was now behind them. Finally done unpacking and setting her half of the room in order, Ei collapsed on her new bed. "I'm so glad they let us stay together. I don't think it would've been easy getting along with a roommate I know nothing about. Thank you for agreeing to this, Miko."
The other side of the room is still a little disorganized, with a half-made bed and clothes on the floor being shoved into a closet. "You underestimate yourself too much. I'm sure you could have become good friends in due time."
Ei lets out a sigh, wondering if that might be true. "Maybe? I would hope so. I mean, yes, I don't have too much trouble talking to new people, but I still don't know how to bring up–"
"You know you don't have to tell anyone about it. Not at first meetings, at least. Even then, you should really consider if you want others to know. And I'm always here to support you in any way I can." Putting the last of her clothes in the closet, Miko comes to sit next to Ei. "In that same line, are you certain that meeting with your professors today is a good idea?"
They talked about it several times already, so it was eye-rolling that Miko would insist so much. Honestly, she babies her too much sometimes. "It was Kokomi's idea, and after discussing it these past few days, we agree that letting them know is in our best interest. Just so they don't get weirded out if it's too obvious at some point. And she will be there with me, as well." She reaches to feel the softness of Miko's hand in an attempt to reassure her. "Don't worry about it, I'll be fine."
They stay like that for a minute, after which Miko stands up again, holding Ei's face and planting a kiss on her head. "Alright. While you go do that, I'll go get our books from the library. Gorou is already there, he'll help me carry them back." Miko goes to pick up her purse and stops at the door, waving goodbye to Ei. "See you later!"
"See you."
Kokomi found Ei pacing around the hallway trying to keep calm. "A little nervous, aren't we?"
"Yes. I've… never told so many people at once."
Raising a hand to the girl's shoulder trying to sooth her, Kokomi offers her a way out. "You want to call it off? We can try again later on, if you still wish to share it."
Ei makes an effort to readjust herself with a bit of confidence before answering. "No, no. We knew it would be stressful, but it's like you said, these are obstacles we should learn to overcome."
"But I also said you have to take care of yourself and only confront those obstacles when the time is right and you are comfortable. I can cancel the meeting and send an email explaining what they should know."
She gives a smile back to the smaller woman for always being so understanding with her. "Thanks, but… we're not backing out now. We're doing this."
After a nod in acknowledgement of her conviction, Kokomi releases her hold on Ei and moves towards the meeting room's door. "Very well. I'll go greet them, then."
"Just one thing!" Ei exclaims, catching Kokomi by the arm. "I'm not going to be in front for this. Not just because, well, I'm still nervous, but I felt that this should be addressed with a more… serious tone? So…"
Kokomi tilts her head once she understands what she means. "Does she know?"
"Yes, we talked about it last night. She doesn't mind doing it for me, and she's ready for it now."
Giving out a sigh due to the unexpected change in the plan, although not the worst by a long shot, Kokomi hugs her, prompting Ei to embrace her back. "Alright, then. I'll come get her in a minute, okay?" And with that, the woman walked into the room.
Without proper furniture in the hallway, the floor will have to do. Ei sits down in a lotus position, eyes closed. Years of practice (and if she could be honest, them being the closest to each other) helped to make this happen almost effortlessly.
She imagines herself at the gates of an ancient palace, welcoming her entrance wide open. There's someone already waiting for her from the other side. Noticing her arrival, that person approaches the gate as well. They exchange only a few words as they go past each other.
"Good luck!"
"Do not worry. I will handle this."
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Being X was a real piece of work. Once again, he seemed determined to put me through a hellish existence. I was placed in an even more regressed world than in my second life. No modern creature comforts and in an era that was positively medieval. Only that wasn't good enough for Being X; no, he had to put me in a world with literal monsters. Honestly, I didn't even understand why was I even existing here. I had been certain oblivion would be what I had to look forward to upon my death. It just goes to show how foolish I was in believing anything that charlatan said.
Dying had been unpleasant enough, and it was made all the worse for the cruel irony of the situation.
I had no reason at all to fight so hard to protect the person I had been ordered to assassinate. The death of General Rudersdorf had been the entire purpose of me being with the convoy. It soured my stomach as I remembered how desperate I had been to make the defense look believable. The company I led had used our protective shells to literally body block the explosive formula and shots fired on the plane. I had underestimated how many Albion elites had been part of the assault, and the wave of fire had torn apart my defenses. Had I been using my normal stratagems; I would have dodged. I should have dodged. But I didn't; instead, I let fear of my duplicitous mission being found out cause me to take a poor risk.
Occasionally I wonder if my heroics saved the very person I had been sent to kill. There was no way of knowing, as this was clearly a completely different world.
My earliest years, I had little memory of, I suspect it was all in jumbles fitting two lifetimes of memories into a tiny undeveloped brain. By the age of three, everything I knew had returned to me. Boredom was my biggest foe, but soon was I was able to prove my precociousness, and my parents were able to teach me more. They were simple folks; he dug ore from the ground and she took care of the house and raised chickens for eggs and meat.
They had not been wealthy, but they hadn't been poor. Life wouldn't have been so bad, if it weren't for the fact, we lived in a nation bordering a place called The Blight. The Blight was home to monstrous humanoid creatures called Trollocs. These beings were typically nine feet tall and far stronger than humans. They had bestial features, ranging from those of canine, bird, bear and more.
These creatures regularly attacked Kandor. I was only six when my parents were slain in a Trolloc raid. Our little township was not right at the border but 15 miles in. It was a horrid night. Had it not been for my Mage abilities, I would have died along with my parents. I tried not to think about it.
The one nice thing about my current life is that I could still do some magic. This body had magic circuits, and I could to a small extent replicate what I could do with a computation orb. Before their invention there had been those rare few who had the ability to manipulate reality around themselves without the aid of technology, but it was so rare most thought it even a myth or an exaggerated story. There was a reason why the young were tested for magical ability, instead of just knowing they had it, it was because utilizing said ability was nearly impossible. Nearly. But not fully impossible, and that is what I studied and tried to perfect in my early childhood years.
Sadly, only to limited utility. The computation orb actualized phenomena by applying the appropriate amount of stimulus to the right location. It automatically calculated the appropriate amounts of mana needed with analog arithmetic and theoretically, whatever it could do could be replicated by applying said formulas yourself. So much easier said than done.
To put it simply you would need to be an idiot savant or some type of super genius to reliably use formulas to float, let alone fly without an orb.
I could mimic some of what a computation orb could do, but only the simplest of feats. The first I tested was the typically passive protective film used for personal defense on the battlefield. It wasn't that the more active defense shell which could stop high-caliber rounds but I had hoped it would stop simple physical attacks. It left a lot to be desired. Practicing by falling from differing heights I could calculate how many Newtons I could reliably use my protective film. The good news was I could fall a pretty fair distance; the bad news was that if my math was correct, and it almost always was, the film would shatter if a strong man, or an average Trolloc hit me with a weapon. Basically, good for one shot, and then I would have to reapply it.
I moved on from personal defense to other ideas. Explosive formulas scared the hell of me given that they combined multiple elements and would require a lot of math. Optical formulas were easier. After days of trial and error I finally mastered being able to use it mentally, though this wasn't as efficient as anchoring it by sticking out my arm. The power output wasn't anything like what I could do in my second life, but it wasn't useless. I could give someone a very nasty burn with it.
To be quite honest, I had never spent time in my second life testing the limits of orb-less casting. Maybe it was natural that doing it without a computation orb drastically decreased the power output, even while using the same equations. Or maybe it was that this world didn't have the same rules when it came to using magical circuits. My body felt the same, which was another oddity. Why in the hell did I look exactly like Tanya Degurechaff had in my second life? Why the hell was I named Tanya Degtyaryov in my third? Other family names here had a Slavic origin, so it wasn't necessarily out of the ordinary for the land. Some others were also East Asian, if I went by Earth origins. All this meant that Being X was still toying with me.
With my parents dead, the people of my town found me and decided to take me to Chachin, the capital of Kandor. My mother supposedly had a cousin who lived there. Not seeing a reason to object I did what the adults wanted. The city was impressive. It was built around several hills, and it actually had mountains within the interior. Three tall ring walls were behind a 100-foot-wide dry moat. Access across the moat to those walls required traversing one of the heavily guarded bridges across it.
This place was a fortress, and I was glad of it. The Trolloc raid in the middle of the night had been an awful experience, shattering my bit of childhood lackadaisicalness. I had even allowed myself to play with other children once or twice. It had felt silly doing so, but aerobic exercise was aerobic exercise and it had been… enjoyable. Several of those children were now dead from the Trollocs.
My mother's cousin was man named Derwan. The man was in his 30s and a widower with no children. He had been reluctant to take me in at first, but seeing as how I was kin he accepted. Part of his hesitation was that he had never had children of his own and had no idea how to care for me. His other apprehension was that his occupation was caravan guard for the Kandori Merchant's Guild. He spent a lot of time on the cross-Borderland route running from Bandar Eban to Fal Moran. This kept him out of the house for long periods of time, and I was still just six years old.
"Derwan, if I am left with food, I will be self-sufficient. I will ensure the house is kept clean and tidy while you are away. Once I am older, I will also be able to work whatever jobs are available to me."
He gave a sigh, "I suppose you don't have anywhere else to go. Very well, Tanya, I'll show you where you'll be sleeping and who to turn to if you need help while I'm gone. I have another week before I need to head out."
Derwan's home wasn't too bad all things considering. It had a kitchen and dining area and three rooms. A cot was provided to me and a pillow and linens. Derwan didn't own any books, which was disappointing but not surprising. I heard rustling in the kitchen and went out to see Derwan begin making a stew.
"Let me help with that."
"Can you even reach the counter?" He asked.
I was short again for my age, but this was mostly due to my age than any curse of diminutiveness Being X gave me. I went to the table and dragged a chair over and then stood on it.
"Problem solved."
"Light, you really don't need to help, you've just arrived."
I barely knew the man, but our familial connection was that of a direct sibling, grandparent, or parent. If I didn't pull my weight, I would likely be shown the door.
"It will be good practice when you are away with work," I replied.
He looked uncomfortable, but handed me some turnips and onions to dice. He watched carefully until he was certain I wouldn't cut myself.
"Burn me, you're good at that! Well done," he complimented.
The stew of turnips, onions, and dried meat was filling and we talked more at the table. I could tell he was awkward around me. I tried to put him at ease, but the more I nonchalantly chatted the more troubled he appeared. What was I doing wrong? Not seeing a ready solution, I opted to plead tiredness and go to bed.
***
"Surviving a Trolloc raid did something to her. Light forgive me, but she's broken."
Derwan was speaking with the herb woman, who provided remedies for common illnesses and poultices for cuts. Kamil was an older woman with graying hair and nodded in understanding.
"It is not uncommon for the mind to be injured after such horrors. Does she have nightmares?"
"No!" He threw up his hands in frustration. "That's the problem. She doesn't cry, she doesn't have nightmares, she doesn't speak of her parents, she doesn't seem happy, but she doesn't seem sad either. All she does is clean around the home, organize, and cook. When she is done with the chores, she assigns herself, all she does is sit in her room."
Kamil furrowed her brow. "Tragedy changes people. I can visit her if you would like, but I suspect she just needs time. You should arrange for her to be around other children." She let the statement sit there for a moment. "And Derwan, it has been seven years. It is a testament to the love you shared, but man was not meant to live alone. Find a wife who will also be a mother for the girl."
Derwan sighed. How could one contemplate replacing the one you treasured most? It was doubtless good advice. His family name would otherwise likely depart to when the last embrace of the mother took him. And maybe it was time…
That evening he returned home. Tanya greeted him immediately. "Derwan, the clothes are all washed and packed for your trip. I took the liberty of trying a different recipe for hard bread that should keep on your journey, with the peppers you like."
Derwan was very concerned over his adopted daughter, however he had to admit that whoever married her in the future would be a lucky individual indeed. Her zeal to organize and prepare things had been most welcome.
"You didn't have to do all that; you are family, not a servant."
"I like to pull my own weight."
"Well, thank you. It will make the journey easier. I'll be away for some time with merchants. Is there a doll or dress you would like me to purchase for you?"
"Nothing is necessary, I am quite content with what you have provided."
"Tanya… I took you in and I will be a proper parent for you. Surely, you want something."
She hesitated and Derwan leaned.
"Books interest me, I know how to read."
That was surprising, children were taught letters, when time allowed, but it was usually when they were in their teens.
"Ah hah, well I will see what I can."
Tanya quickly amended her statement, "A history book, please, not stories."
Derwan just shook his head in exasperation. She was an odd one, but he'd do his best to get her what she wanted. Maybe it would even help her get past the tragic deaths of her parents.
***
I had done the best I could to showcase my utility. The simple reality is that Derwan did not like me around, and I could commiserate. In my first life, if I had to take care of a six-year-old, I would be doing all I could to get rid of them. Taking care of family for the short term was clearly seen as his duty, but I knew he would be looking into whatever passed for orphanages.
I didn't want that to happen; this setup was perfectly ideal. Derwan would be gone for two months, and that gave me an exceptional amount of time to work on practicing with my magic and learning a bit more of the wider world. I wouldn't be lax on my physical form either. This was still the Borderlands, where Trollocs could come boiling out of The Blight at any moment. While the walls of the capital had not been breached in living memory, best to be prepared and not need it than not be prepared and need it.
He had left me a small bag of silver marks for food and other things I would need. Derwan also let me know that I should go to Kamil if I needed anything, anything at all. I was also told to try to make friends with other children, which was a complete waste of time, but I would need to find one or two to make nice with me. Maybe even bribe with a few copper pennies to say how we were now friends once Derwan returned. I'd not give him a reason to think I was disobedient.
Experimenting further with magical formulae was productive. A computation orb would have made everything easy, but even without it I could concentrate and run through the mathematical requirements to alter reality locally. Flying was out, but I could hover. I could also push myself in any direction I desired at a high rate of speed briefly. From a standing position it was passably easy to do the math, but once I was accelerating it became nearly impossible to apply additional vectors on the fly.
The biggest surprise was how internal alterations to my body, weren't that complicated. The reflexive enhancements, which essentially just sped of my brain and improved my coordination, were easy to keep going. Not all day, the use of the formulae still tired me out, but I could keep it up for almost two hours if I didn't use it for anything else. I could also dope myself up on pain killers and mimic the effects of powerful drugs.
The protective film was easy to maintain as it did not require constant usage of my magical reserves. I felt far more secure wearing it around me all day. It was effectively invisible and it allowed smaller particles like air to pass through so I could breathe without issue. It did have to be taken down when I ate.
Complex illusions were too difficult, but I could use simple ones that didn't move. Not overtly useful, specially with how Trollocs also used smell, but I bet it would work as a distraction when necessary. All in all, I felt good about my combat repertoire.
My parents had taught me about the world, about The Blight, and the Dark One, about Trollocs, and other basic stories. One of those was Aes Sedai. Women who could channel the One Power and do all sorts of amazing things. Fling fire, call lightning, heal the sick, and more. I suspected that my magical circuits were also within these Aes Sedai, but I wasn't sure. Unfortunately, the Aes Sedai were incredibly rare and did not often travel from their base of operations, a city called Tar Valon that held the White Tower.
Also, I had never heard of anyone's magical circuits driving someone mad. Yet here in this universe, all the male users of the 'One Power' invariably went insane. That didn't add up, though maybe it was some sort of propaganda to ensure a matriarchal control on magic. I'd need to get answers at some point, but it was hardly pressing for now.
Time passed, as it was wont to do, and I explored the city a bit more. Chachin was large and a bit of a trade hub in the Borderlands. The main road to the south that passed through Tar Valon flowed through the city. Crime was highly localized to certain streets and neighborhoods. Our home was modest, but it was a relatively peaceful neighborhood. Theft was rare, dueling however was not. Near everyone was armed and matters of pride and honor were serious things. Dueling didn't always, or even typically, end in death, but in the two months I was left alone I'd seen two men die in duels.
Something else that was interesting compared to my former lives was that the law forbade the wearing of any sort of face covering. That was to prevent any Myrddraal from sneaking about the city.
As awful as Trollocs were, Myrddraal were significantly worse. Though what was rumor and what was fact, I wasn't certain. Myrddraal reportedly had the ability to 'fade' away, which sounded like some sort of teleportation ability. They had no eyes, but could see perfectly and there was a saying that said that "the look of the eyeless was fear," and men spoke of it as true. Slaying one earned someone the title Dreadbane. Beyond that they were supposed to be incredibly dangerous with their swords and nearly impossible to kill. Truly something spawned from the pits of Being X's depraved imagination.
I listened to conversations in my wandering and noted the prices of goods. I occasionally played with the children; simple games like tag seemed universal, even across universes. These games were played, despite the cold. The land of Kandor wasn't artic but it would be analogous to the northern portion of the Empire - or Germany if I went by my first life. It had four seasons, but winter brought snow and bitter cold, and it was halfway through spring before they melted away.
Two months passed quickly and Derwan would be home soon. Everything was as it should be at the house. I had visibly played with other children. There should be no cause to abandon me to some orphanage.
***
Guard duty was simple enough, and keeping to the main road meant few brigands would chance an attack. Between the general wariness of potential Trolloc raids and the presence of Sniffers in most of the major cities of the Borderlands, it was a fool's game to try.
Desperate men sometimes did desperate things. Derwan woke to arrows flying down, and he and the other dozen guards quickly drew their blades and find the archers. The bandits no doubt had hoped to kill a few more with arrows but their aim was poor. Still, two of his companions were dead. That hadn't happened in years.
The merchant would pay the families of the men extra, and the rest of them too. Derwan had a heavy purse when he returned, and he had been able to purchase not just one, but two books for his adopted daughter. One was a book that the merchant said was a historical account of Artur Hawking's reign. Derwan knew how to read, but not well, but the book seller seemed trustworthy. The second book was one about the "Succession Wars" in Andor. He wasn't sure if Tanya would truly enjoy these, but the other options were tales, or books of poetry, or collections of obscure knowledge, and not history.
He had also resolved to take Kamil's advice and find a woman to marry. It had been long enough, and Tanya needed a mother. Light knew he had no idea how to be a father.
He arrived to a nearly spotless home. Items were laid and ready to be cooked and Tanya greeted him.
"Welcome home Derwan, I did not know the exact time you would be returning, but I'll start supper now."
Derwan smiled at her. "Thank you, Tanya. I've brought you some gifts, but you can have them on one condition."
She looked excited for a moment and then guarded.
"Condition?"
"Call me da, I can never replace your father, but I will do my best."
A small smile appeared on her face, "Your terms are acceptable… da."
Feeling much better he fished out the two books and felt at peace for the first time since he had agreed to take his cousin's daughter in.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
In the morning, Peter woke up with strong pain all over his fragile and beaten up body, especially his shoulder was aching painfully, feeling so sore.
Peter couldn't hide the painful look on his face, getting up with a painful whine and slowly walked to the bathroom, trying to clean his shoulder, but it hurt too much to touch it with a wound cleanser.
Peter quietly walked to his father's bedroom, noticing that fortunately his father was still sleeping, so he could now sneak to school without getting hit or slapped again. Most mornings Peter's father would always slap him on the cheek for to start the morning.
When Peter went back to his room, he quietly put his muddy and bloody school uniform on, going to the bathroom mirror to see if his bloody shoulder was too obvious. Sadly, Peter couldn't really hide it, not the blood and not the dirt and mud.
At school other students were whispering about Peter, everyone seeing the blood on his uniform and the tears in his eyes. Even when everyone always bullied Peter, they now were almost worried about the boy. Well, at least curious to know what had happened to that small student.
Peter kept his chin against his chest, trying to hide, but he couldn't make his school uniform invisible from everyone's keen eyes.
Peter was just walking to his locker when Wade walked on the hallway as well. At first, Wade smiled when seeing the younger one, but once he saw the blood on Peter's school uniform, his eyes turned worried and very anxious. Once again the teacher got so worried when he saw Peter like this.
What had happened to Peter? What was going on at his home?
Wade suddenly got a bad feeling. There surely was something very wrong going on at Peter's home. It would explain the student's strange behavior whenever he had brought up his parents and the conditions at his home.
"Hey", Wade walked to Peter, smiling gently, so he wouldn't scare Peter who seemed to be deep in his thoughts. Peter still jumped, swallowing down painfully and lowered his head instantly when he was still too scared to look at Wade directly.
"He- Hey", Peter almost whispered then, trying to pick up his books in a hurry, but his hands were shaking.
"Come with me", Wade said then, smiling softly, trying his best to make Peter see how he didn't have to be scared of him, how he would never hurt him or do anything to make him uncomfortable.
"Whe- Where?"
"Just come", Wade smiled fondly. Peter was hesitating, but Wade was his teacher, so he had to obey even when he just wanted to run away and hide somewhere where no one could find him.
Wade started walking to his office while Peter followed him quietly, the boy keeping his chin against his chest the whole time.
In his office, Wade closed the door and sat down, but Peter was too nervous to do the same. Wade was looking at Peter with gentle eyes. The boy was once again clearly scared to death. It was obvious how frightened Peter was. Even when Wade was his teacher, Peter had hard time trusting him. He really couldn't trust anyone. Not even Wade and now when they were alone, Peter was even more scared and his heart was banging in his chest and his hands were sweaty.
"I just have few questions I want to ask", Wade said comfortingly, trying to gain Peter's trust, trying to show how he wasn't dangerous. Even when Wade was worried, he was still smiling softly while looking at the young university student.
"Qu- Questions? About what?" Peter asked with a small voice.
Wade was quiet for a moment, thinking of how to shape his questions so he wouldn't make Peter feel like he was pushing him into a corner.
"About your parents and your conditions at home"
"The- There's not anything to tell", Peter swallowed, taking a step closer to the door, ready to run away, but Wade got up and walked to him, "Peter... I'm not blind or stupid. I can see how you always react a certain way when I bring up your parents", Wade spoke with his gentle voice
"I- I just...", Peter didn't know how to lie believably or how to change the subject when he really didn't want to tell how bad things really were.
"Peter... Tell me the truth. What's going on at your home?"
"Can... Can I really trust you?"Peter finally swallowed down painfully.
"Of course", Wade smiled, but nothing prepared him to hear how things really were and how Peter was cruelly abused everyday by his own father.
Peter finally started crying before he could even say one word, "My- My mother died in a car accident many years ago and now... I... I live with my father. He drinks a lot and he-", Wade didn't have to hear the rest to understand what Peter tried to tell him.
"He beats you, doesn't he?"
Peter could only nod, now sniffing and tried to dry his big eyes.
"Where did that blood came from? What did he do to you?"
Peter couldn't talk, so he slowly lowered his jacket and shirt, so he could show his shoulder to Wade who looked so shocked and he almost gasped terrifiedly.
"He- he beat me with his belt... Thi- This time harder than ever before"
Wade's eyes widened even more. When Peter showed his shoulder, Wade could also see countless scars and bruises, some of them looking quite old and some very fresh.
"Let me look at your shoulder", Wade looked
at Peter more closely now, now clearly seeing how the younger one's shoulder had quite a deep wound after being hit by his father.
Peter shifted back, fearing that Wade would hurt him as well if he would let him come too close, "It's okay. I just want to look at you", Wade's voice stayed soft and his eyes were warm and fond for Peter. The younger one could only nod, giving Wade a permission to come closer, to hold his shoulder, allowing him to look at his bloody wound.
Wade really wanted to help Peter, not just because he was his teacher, but because he genuinely wanted to make the younger one feel safe and show him that not all adults are bad or wanted to hurt him.
"Come to the police station. You need to report about your father. We'll also find you a safe place for tonight", Wade smiled, "My friend is a police officer. I'm sure she'll find you a place where to go for tonight", the man continued warmly. His good friend, Vanessa, was a very kind woman who always cared deeply about young people like Peter who was being abused and hurt in every possible way at home. She too couldn't close her eyes to other people's pain and suffering.
Now that Wade was close to Peter, he could see more clearly how small the younger one really was, so short and fragile looking. Wade couldn't hold back his gentle smile as he walked out with the boy.
At the police station, Wade walked to Vanessa's with Peter following him closely, keeping his head down when he was too scared to look anyone in the eye. Wade turned to look at Peter who tried to look extra small and hide behind the older one's back like trying to be invisible.
Wade knocked on Vanessa's door and once he heard a soft "come in", he opened the door to his friend's office.
"Hey", Wade smiled at his friend who took a look at Peter, her keen eyes instantly seeing all the blood on the boy's school uniform and how he was shaking from fear.
"This is Peter", Wade introduced the boy to Vanessa who said a soft hello. She could tell how scared the poor boy was and she could only wonder why.
"How can I help you?" Vanessa asked while smiling.
"Show her", Wade smiled softly, encouraging Peter to show the woman his bruises and cuts all over his beaten up body which was so fragile like glass.
Peter swallowed as he took off his jacket and slowly showed his bloody shoulder and other cuts and bruises on other parts of his small body.
"Peter's father's been abusing Peter for years", Wade said when he could see how schocked Vanessa was, just like he had been when he first saw Peter's body.
"Don't worry. I won't let him hurt you ever again", both Wade and Vanessa promised to Peter, smiling comfortingly, their eyes so sad for Peter when for years he had gone through hell.
The same day Peter's father was arrested for assault, the police dragging him out while the man started shouting, knowing that after years Peter had finally gone to the police. Even when Peter wasn't there, the man was still calling his name and blamed him for everything.
Back in the police station, Wade was with Peter, "Sit down", the older one smiled, gesturing a chair next to the wooden desk, smiling constantly while his eyes followed how Peter only nodded shyly and sat down, now looking at his lap, "Does it hurt?" Wade asked when he kneeled infront of Peter after getting some wound cleanser to clean the younger one's shoulder.
Peter only nodded, "This might sting a little", Wade carefully put some cleanser on a cotton pad, being as gentle as he possibly could while cleaning Peter's shoulder.
Peter closed his eyes tightly. He really couldn't handle pain, even the wound cleanser made him cry and sniff with pain.
"Sorry", Wade apologized with fond eyes. Peter really was so adorable and so vulnerable. Wade just wanted to take care of him, having such a strong urge to hug the poor boy, but he knew it wouldn't be appropriate. Especially not when Peter was so scared of everyone. Peter would surely push him away and feel even more scared than he already was.
After Wade had taken care of Peter's shoulder, he asked the younger one to wait him in the hallway as he went to talk with Vanessa. Since Peter was already 19 he could not be placed in youth home, but Wade didn't want to send Peter back home all alone, so he decided to take him home.
"Come", Wade walked to Peter, showing a gentle smile as he gestured the younger one to follow him, but Peter was once again hesitating, "Where are we going?" Peter asked as he slowly started following Wade out and to his car.
"You're going to live with me for a while", Wade turned to look at Peter, his eyes getting soft when he could see how scared the poor boy was. How can he make Peter trust him? How can he show that he would never hurt him?
"Are you sure?" Peter asked, his voice staying small and careful.
"I- I mean... You're my teacher. I... I don't want to get you in trouble", Peter spoke shyly, playing with his fingers while keeping his head down.
"Don't worry", Wade smiled. Peter worrying over him was so cute and endearing.
"And I'm sure. I have an extra room", Wade smiled then, showing his gentle nature, trying to show Peter how he didn't have to be scared of him. Not all the people in the world wanted to harm him. Wade really wanted to show that.
When driving to Wade's apartment, Peter was sitting still on his seat, holding his own hands and kept staring at his lap. The poor boy was clearly nervous and extremely shy, being almost scared to look at Wade even when the young teacher was smiling at him.
Finally, Wade pulled over infront of his house. His place was so beautiful with wide windows and with dark brick walls. Overall, Wade's house was really well furnished, looking really rustic, but it really fit his style.
Peter was looking around shyly, still holding his hands, it was more like a habit he always did whenever he felt shy or nervous.
"Make yourself at home. I'll cook something", Wade said, smiling constantly, trying to make Peter relax and lower his shields and understand how with him, he would be safe.
Peter only nodded shyly, continuing to hold his hands as he walked to the living room window where he could see the main park. The scenery was beautiful. Peter knew this was only temporary, but he couldn't deny how safe he suddenly felt and how Wade's house was a place he could maybe be happy at.
After looking around, Peter came to the kitchen. Even when Wade was his teacher, the poor boy was still cautious and kept his distance, keeping at least one meter between him and Wade.
"Ca- Can I help?" Peter's voice was almost trembling still, playing with his fingers while looking at Wade.
Wade looked at Peter, "No, thank you. I'm almost done. You can sit down", he smiled, gesturing the table.
The way Peter was eating made Wade wonder when he had last had a proper dinner. After all, Peter was really small, maybe even a little underweighted, so precious and fragile looking. Peter's life must have been so difficult in every possible way...
Later when Peter was ready to go to bed, Wade came to borrow him his shirt for the night, so the boy didn't have to sleep in his own clothes. Peter looked extra small when Wade's shirt was way too big for him.
Wade was standing by the door when Peter turned his back on him and took his own shirt off. Wade could now see all the scars on Peter's small body. Wade felt such deep anger. How can a father hurt his own son like this?
"You can sleep here", Wade opened the door to his guest room which was so spacious. Peter almost gasped. The room was so beautiful, cozy and inviting. It was much bigger than Peter's room back home.
Peter felt emotional. He had never thought someone so kind like Wade would save him, making him feel safe after all those dark years of being abused. Would things finally get better?
"Can I really sleep here?" Peter's innocence and pureness made Wade smile. The younger one was so adorable, Wade had to admit it.
"Yes. It's your room now"
"If you need anything, I'm right across the hallway", Wade smiled, his eyes soft and fond for the younger one.
"Thank you...", Peter said sincerely. He didn't mean just the room, but everything Wade had already done for him, saving him from his father, providing him a new home, warm food and a bed where to sleep.
"I... I'm really grateful of your help", Peter said so whole-heartedly. Finally after years being abused, he could sleep a whole night without his father being there to wake him up with his drunken voice, dragging him out of his bed just so he could beat the poor boy with his leather belt.
Finally, Peter didn't have to be scared. No, he was safe now.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Amity felt herself stir and kept her eyes closed, chasing the remnants of the night terrors away.
What an awful dream.
Good morning.
She opened her eye a crack, and saw the translucent figure from her nightmares floating nearby. Panic clawed up her throat, threatening to choke her as the memories came back clearer. Amity sat bolt upright and let out a tiny groan of pain and realization.
“I thought you were just a bad dream.”
Sorry to disappoint.
Amity opened her eyes, greys of the morning light contrasting with the colorful, however muted clothes of the ghost. A frown made its way to her lips. She looked at her hands, blinking several times when they remained a pale, grey-ish color. Looking up again, the ghost of Luz remained colorful and certainly not grey.
The fingers were back, wrapping around her throat, cutting off her air and causing her to choke.
“Why can’t I see colors?
I can’t see colors.
”
Part of the curse.
“You- this is beyond cruel. Why can’t I see any colors besides
you
?
If it makes you feel any better, I can’t see any colors besides yourself.
You didn’t say anything about it last night.
“It was pitch black outside! And I had more pressing problems, if you didn’t notice.”
Her arms and legs had twisted themselves into an elaborate knot, unlikely to be undone any time soon. A grimace seemed permanently carved onto her face.
What’d you like me to do about it?
“Nothing.”
Sighing heavily, she unwound her limbs and clambered off the bed, smoothing her jacket down as she made her way to the bathroom. God, she was filthy from having spent the better part of her evening sobbing and rolling around on the forest floor.
Amity stripped off her jacket and started to remove her shirt when Luz’s ghostly face appeared in the doorframe. Blushing furiously, she kicked the door shut and tugged her shirt back down.
“Do they not have the concept of personal space wherever you come from?”
I didn’t know you were changing. Sorry.
Amity thought she caught a note of embarrassment in her flat tone. Letting out a deep breath, she tugged the rest of her clothes off and quickly stepped into the shower, hoping to avoid any more ghostly surprises.
The moment the hot water hit her back, all the muscles in her body relaxed. It was at that moment Amity realized just how
exhausted
she was.
She lingered a bit longer than she usually would, letting the hot water wash away the pain from the previous evening. When Amity stepped out of the shower, she felt just a little bit more sane.
After pulling on some clean clothes, she stepped out of the bathroom and found Luz staring out her window, a sad expression on her face. Hearing the door close, the ghost turned away from the window and faced Amity.
You have a beautiful view from your room.
“.....Thank you.”
She almost asked something, but bit her tongue and grabbed a clean cowl from her closet. A nice, muted gray.
Anger ran through her once more, and she walked out of the room without saying anything to the ghost. As expected, she followed Amity out like a lost puppy. Pangs of sadness echoed in her chest as she passed by a plethora of once colorful things, now all grey in her eyes.
She made her way to the door and opened it, nearly falling to her knees in agony when the once beautiful sunrise became a wash of greys.
It’s just as hard for me too.
Amity swallowed her bitterness and stepped out the front door, aware that she was late already.
“Hurry up, ghost girl.”
Please just call me Luz.
“.....Fine.”
~~~
School was worse than she expected. She could no longer tell which students were in which track, their uniforms either grey or darker grey. The banners on the walls hung in various shades of grey. Everywhere she looked, more and more grey met her eyes. Grey, grey, grey. Amity was starting to get sick of grey.
Luz was starting to get on her nerves, constantly pointing at ordinary things, like her locker, and demanding to know what they were. Amity then had to answer as inconspicuously as possible, informing the girl that it was just a locker.
Yeah, but the ones in the human world don’t have teeth!
She softened just a bit when she saw how excited the ghost was, eyes shining as she took in all the new things the school had to offer.
Can I apply here?
“Somehow, I don’t think Principal Bump will be too keen on letting a ghost enroll in his school.”
Luz looked downcast.
“Can you even do magic?”
The ghost looked up, pain clear in her eyes.
I used to be able to do one spell.
She didn’t elaborate.
Amity turned away, heart strangely heavy at the way Luz’s face fell.
What’s your first class?
“Oh, AP Abominations History.”
What’s an abomination?
She would have laughed if her situation hadn’t been so awful, if guilt didn’t threaten to choke her with every word the ghost uttered.
“Come on, you’ve got a lot to learn.”
Luz followed Amity to her history class, which sucked the life out of her the moment she entered. Honestly, she wouldn’t be taking this awful class if her parents didn’t insist upon it.
The teacher was a short, squat witch with a nasally voice that grated on Amity’s nerves every time he spoke.
“Oh, Amity! Could you hand me my blue classwork folder? It should be right besides you.”
A stack of folders sat on the desk besides hers, and her face fell a little.
I think it’s the one second from the bottom.
Shooting Luz a dirty look, Amity muttered under her breath.
“Like you know any better than me.”
Nevertheless, she selected the one that the ghost pointed out, having decided that that one looked closest to blue. The teacher took the folder without complaint, and Amity let out a sigh of relief.
See?
“Shut up.”
During the rest of the class, Amity spaced out and stared out the window, watching grey trees and grey grass sway in the wind.
She glanced over to Luz, the girl watching the teacher in rapt attention, eyes a little wide with all the information she was learning. It was almost cute.
The green of her hoodie and brown of her hair were a welcome change from the greys around her, and Amity found herself staring.
Luz looked over, an eyebrow raised at the spaced out look on her face.
Not paying attention?
Flushing a little, she quickly jot a note down on the worksheet in front of her.
I’ve already learned this.
Nodding, Luz turned back towards the board. When the bell rang, Amity jumped out of her seat and stretched, while the ghost looked a little disappointed.
Yawning, Amity made her way out of the class with Luz in tow.
That was so cool! I didn’t know anything about Abominations, but now I think I know too much. In a good way, though. Is that weird?
Again, Amity almost laughed.
What was wrong with her?
“You're the only person I know who’s ever enjoyed that class.”
By the way, what’s the Knee?
“It’s a place where some witches go to practice magic. There’s said to be a large amount of magical energy there, which is helpful for anyone who’s trying to learn new spells.”
Do you practice there?
Amity frowned, remembering the horrible mess that she’d gotten herself into the last time she practiced at the Knee.
“Not anymore.”
Can we go sometime?
She was about to answer no, but the expression on Luz’s face gave pause to her words. There was tangible excitement on her face, and Amity couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen anyone so innocently excited for something.
“Fine. Tomorrow’s a Saturday, so I’ll take you then.”
The ghost beamed.
Sounds great.
“Let’s just get through the rest of the day first.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
These halls used to be filled with the sounds of your laughter, giggling wildly as Bela or Cassandra or Daniela or all three would chase you. They would teasingly threaten to string you up by your ankles and tickle you. There's still a stain on the carpet where you tried to surprise Alcina with a handmade paint rocket but it backfired. Your head ended up needing to be shaved because the paint wouldn't wash out. Even now I cannot bring myself to walk that direction, nor anywhere in the castle without painstaking memories jabbing my insides like needles. All I can do is sit, and stare at the courtyard where you sacrificed yourself. It should have been me.
I failed mom. I failed to protect your baby girl. The one job you had for me and I couldn't even do that. The blood hasn't even dried and I can already not picture continuing on without you. I'll never get to hear you laugh, conspire, or scream that you hate me ever again. I watch as maids clean up the aftermath; no one suspected a weakness in the walls, or the lycans getting bold enough to come inside the castle. We were up to out necks in bodies, the girls cutting down one after another, Alcina dicing through them like a hot knife through butter. No one saw the armored lycan stalking its way to the courtyard where I was except you. There was no time is what I tell myself. No time to get Alcina, or one of the girls, because I was too distracted cutting down another lycan when the armored one raised its fist.
You and your damned inventions. None of them ever worked. Why did you think this one would? I slam my fist against the window, rattling the glass. Why? You had to have known! The blast was enough to knock the armor off so I could strike it down but, it cost me you. I've seen my fair share of horror within these walls but nothing could prepare me for seeing your corpse blown across the rose bushes.
"Why?!" I scream, tears burning my cheeks as I slump against the window.
The poor maids in the courtyard startle but continue their work, none of them dare to look up because they all know it's me. The door opens with a soft squeak of the hinge, the heavy footsteps tell me all I need to know as two large arms wrap themselves around me. She says nothing, but the mixture of tobacco and perfume is a welcomed one as I bury my head into her dress.
"It should have been me," I sob.
She says nothing, only rubs my back until I cry myself to sleep. The last peaceful sleep I get for weeks. Waking up in terror in the middle of the night, screaming for you to stay inside, anything to change the course of what already happened. You would be so ashamed of my state; hardly eating, mindlessly wandering or sleeping for hours. I can't avoid the hall forever. Maybe.....maybe if I just...stand in front of the door that'll be enough to kick start something. Anything other than this numbness inside my chest. I hyperventilate as the door comes into view, somehow the hall seems longer than usual with each step it gets further away until it suddenly pops right in front of my face.
The doorknob burns my palm as I turn and open it and the first thing I notice is....no dust. I look around the untouched room; the bed still unmade from the morning of, your clothes still dirty in the hamper, your smell is all but gone except in your pillow. I grab one, shove my face in and inhale the first deep breath I've taken since your death. There's a squeak, quieter than a mouse but I whip my head around to the doorway to find Daniela standing there with a duster in hand.
"I'm sorry I'll come back," she whispers.
"No, it's okay...have you...been cleaning in here?"
Daniela rubs her foot in the ground, "sort of. I dust what I can and get the spiderwebs..."
I set the pillow down sheepishly before fully turning to face her, "thank you Daniela."
Daniela gives me a soft smile, "how....how are you doing?"
My nose burns but there's no more tears to shed as I sniff and hug myself, "this is the first time I've been in here, and it feels like the wound reopened."
Daniela walks up to you, setting the duster aside and you give her a forced smile as she embraces you in a hug. There's a brief moment of embarrassment, you should be comforting her rather than the other way around but you snuggle up into her once the feeling goes away. You and Daniela were always close, sometimes I joked you were closer with her than me because you two were inseparable.
"I'm sorry," I choke out.
"For what?" Daniela asks.
"Not being there for you...and here you are comforting me.."
Daniela hugs me a little tighter, "we all heal differently. Bela and Cassandra were there for me, and you had mother. It wasn't our time together yet."
I chuckle softly and sigh, "that's such a Daniela thing to say."
Daniela chuckles a little which makes me chuckle again and pull away from her as I rub her arm, "thanks Daniela."
"Would you like to spend more time in here?"
"Yeah..."
The time spent with Daniela made me realize I haven't spent any time with the others and I have no idea how they're coping either. I find Bela in the living room, cuddled up on the love seat in front of the roaring fire when she perks up to find me standing there awkwardly before she silently moves aside. I take the invite and sit on the love seat with her, she rests her head on my shoulder and we sit there in silence. The only sound being the crackling of the fire but somehow it feels healing in the most primitive sense, me and Bela sitting there together, communicating in body language. I'm not sure who fell asleep first, but I woke up first and for the first time since the incident I feel rested.
Cassandra. Big, strong, Cassandra took the hardest hit from the attack and is still slowly recovering, she was closest to the broken wall and therefore exposed to the winter air. I knock on her door and she opens it violently before realizing who it is, she must have been expecting a maid or someone.
"Oh...sorry..what can I do for you?"
"I wanted to check in on you. See how you're doing."
"I'm fine."
I tilt my head, "we both know that's not entirely true. Is it?"
Cassandra sighs, "I'm not looking for any lovey dovey affection. I'm fine."
"Okay...then I'm here for myself."
Cassandra's shoulders relax before she moves aside to let me in and I find a spot on her bed with her beside me. I lean against her and she wraps an arm around my shoulders. You and Cassandra always got into trouble, she would often give you the means for your inventions.
"It's my fault..." Cassandra whispers.
"What is?"
"The attack. Everything. I should have paid closer attention, and I would have seen the structural integrity of the wall was weakened."
"You couldn't have known.."
"That's not all. I'm the one who gave her the rocket. If it I hadn't she might..."
Tears stream down Cassandra's cheeks and wet my hair but I don't move. I rest a hand on her thigh as I take a shaky breath.
"It's not your fault."
"I'm so stupid."
"It's not your fault."
"I should have been better."
"It's not your fault."
I move to look up at Cassandra who avoids looking back before I force her to by cupping her cheek and turning her face to look at me.
"Please forgive me. I'm so sorry."
"There's nothing to forgive, but if that's what you need to hear then....I forgive you Cassandra."
Cassandra hugs me suddenly, burying her face into my neck as she cries a little harder. I hug her back, closing my eyes and resting my head in her shoulder.
* * *
Alcina rests a hand on my shoulder as I tighten my grip on the flowers, the girls following behind me until the foyer where they can't go any further. Alcina accompanies me to the grave site, I start to tear up on the walk there, my lip quivers as I gasp for any kind of air. The closer I get the harder it gets to breathe until I'm standing over your headstone. I kneel in the wet dirt, uncaring of it seeping into my pants nor the dirt stains that will inevitably be there. I set the flowers down before tracing a hand over your name, fingering the lettering as if my finger is carving each other.
"I'm so sorry," I mumble.
I thought I could handle it, seeing the reality, but all I can do is cry a little harder as my shoulders shake as another wave hits me. I'll never see you again. You're gone. I sigh as Alcina rubs my back again but I nod my head and sit back up straight.
"Tell mom I love her, and that I'll be okay."
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Lanfear’s breath caught as she shifted again, slow and deliberate, a featherlight grind of silk and skin. Moiraine didn’t stop her. She didn’t even look at her. Only reached for another piece of parchment, the scratch of the quill as sharp as a blade between them.
It was maddening.
And that, she realized, was the point.
For a long while, Lanfear had hated her own vulnerability. But there was no going back now. No retreating to the safety of ice-cold distance. Not when the fire inside her burned so hot. And certainly not when Moiraine’s quiet presence was the thing that made it all possible.
Lanfear pressed her cheek against Moiraine’s neck, her lips ghosting just above the collar of her gown. She didn’t dare kiss her yet. Not without permission. But her fingers curled against the arm of the chair like claws, restraint burning hot and raw under her skin.
Moiraine didn’t stop her.
But she didn’t help her either.
Her eyes stayed on the parchment, the scratch of her quill steady, maddeningly calm. As if the most dangerous woman in the world wasn’t slowly coming undone against her. As if this display didn’t matter at all.
She had been worshiped once, by thousands, by nations. Feared, desired, adored. And now she was here, reduced to the ache of needing a glance, a word,
anything
from the woman who wouldn’t even look at her.
Lanfear’s voice came softer now, nearly undone. “You’re going to sit there and write while I fall apart for you?” The words slipped from her lips, part accusation, part plea. She arched slightly, pressing into the moment, trying to make her desperation clear. But it wasn’t weakness, no, not that. It was a hunger that could tear through the world if she let it. Devotion, turned sharp with impatience, now raw and naked before Moiraine.
The Amyrlin paused, just long enough for Lanfear to hope. To think she might finally turn, acknowledge her, do
something
. But then she dipped her quill again, ink catching the candlelight like a sliver of night, and continued writing.
She moved again, a little firmer this time. Her silk robes shifted, bunching between them. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat, her chest, her thighs. Lanfear's jaw clenched. Her hands slid higher, along the arms of the chair, fingertips brushing the line of Moiraine’s sleeves, searching for something that would break the composure.
The movement jolted her, made her gasp through clenched teeth. The sound broke between them, hanging in the still air like a confession.
Still, Moiraine didn’t flinch.
Lanfear’s hands trembled as she brought them to Moiraine’s waist, holding her like an anchor. She didn’t pull her close. She didn’t dare. But her touch was pleading now, the way a drowning woman clutches driftwood. Her hips moved in slow, desperate circles, chasing friction, chasing
anything
. “I could tear this desk apart with a thought,” she murmured, low and silk-slick with frustration.
“You could,” Moiraine agreed. “But you won’t. Because then I wouldn’t touch you at all.”
At that, Lanfear froze. Moiraine looked up finally, her gaze cool and steady and impossible to look away from. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Her presence filled the room like a rising tide.
“You’ll stay there until I’m finished, needy and grinding without releasing yourself, ” she said. “And then, you’ll drop to your knees and show me how much you desire me. If you can’t bear that, you may leave and let me work.”
Lanfear’s heart thundered in her chest. She knew, in that moment, that she had no choice now but to continue. To endure, no matter how much it burned. And so, she remained there, locked in the tension between them, waiting. Perhaps for Moiraine to finally break. Or perhaps... for herself.
Her breath came faster now, her body betraying her as she stayed where she was, trembling under the weight of Moiraine’s words and of her own need, the silence between them heavy and thick like a storm waiting to break. She had been pushed to the edge of herself, every part of her aching, desperate, and yet still fiercely proud. She wanted to please Moiraine, and she wanted to please herself, too.
She had faced down men who would call themselves gods. She had destroyed cities for less than this. And yet now, here she was, motionless save for the tremble in her limbs, her breath shuddering in and out like a prayer half-choked. Her body screamed to move, to press forward, to take what she craved with the same ruthless certainty she had taken everything else in her life.
But she didn’t.
Because Moiraine hadn’t said she could.
The scratch of the quill resumed, each stroke deliberate and slow, as if Moiraine knew how every movement needled at Lanfear’s patience. She didn’t spare her even a glance. The candlelight flickered across her cheekbone, across the smooth, composed mask that had not cracked, not even once.
Her body was molten beneath her skin, tight with restraint. It was unbearable, this stillness. This waiting. She shifted only slightly, just enough to feel the silk of her robes move, just enough to chase a sliver of sensation, and even that felt like surrender.
She couldn’t stop the soft sound that escaped her lips, barely a breath, almost a whimper. She hated it. Hated how easy it was to fall apart under Moiraine’s hand, even when that hand hadn’t touched her yet.
“You’re cruel,” she whispered hoarsely, her head bowed now, not in defeat, but in a slow-blooming devotion that frightened even her. “You know what this does to me.”
Moiraine still didn’t reply. She merely dipped her quill again, the pause slight, but there. Intentional. Lanfear’s breath caught but she didn't pull back. Instead, her lips remained poised just above Moiraine’s ear, not touching but close enough that every tiny sound she made was felt as much as heard. A shaky exhale. The faintest tremor of a sigh. The whisper of breath that wasn’t quite words but carried
meaning
all the same.
Still, the quill scratched steadily and cruelly, but it
stopped
every time a sound slipped past Lanfear’s lips. Not for long, merely a flicker, a heartbeat. But it was enough.
Enough for Lanfear to know she was getting through.
It all came rushing to her, the faint twitch of a shoulder. The subtle tremble in Moiraine’s breath, drawn in through her nose, too slow, too deliberate to be anything but controlled.
Moiraine wasn’t unaffected, she was pretending.
Performing
her calm, holding to her mask with the same iron precision Lanfear was using to hold herself still.
The realization made her bold.
Lanfear let out another breath, this one softer, more deliberate, her lips nearly brushing the curve of Moiraine’s ear. The next pause in the quill was longer. Sharper. A moment of stillness like the moment before lightning strikes.
And then, in a voice so low it was more vibration than sound, she breathed: “I could
moan
for you.” She tilted her head, just slightly, brushing her nose along the line of Moiraine’s jaw before shifting in Moiraine’s lap, and the slide of silk whispered between them, friction meeting heat.
Her thighs clenched involuntarily and her eyes fluttered closed, the ache coiling tighter inside her with every second that passed without relief. The moves had become more frantic, as if she forgot she couldn't release herself. She could feel how warm Moiraine had become, the shift in her body heat.
Lanfear’s breath hitched again, every muscle in her thighs trembling with the need to move, to grind, to press herself closer and chase that edge she wasn’t allowed to reach. Her entire body pulsed with heat, want spiraling through her in waves that refused to break.
It slipped out of her before she could stop it, a sound louder than all the others, raw and desperate, a broken thing that cracked the silence like lightning through glass. Her mouth parted wide against Moiraine’s ear, no longer trembling but gasping and moaning, needy, helpless.
She could feel every heartbeat now, hers, Moiraine’s, beating in a terrible synchrony, a rhythm of denial and longing. Her hips shifted again, this time slower, more desperate, the motion a plea and a promise both. Her lips parted, close enough that her breath stirred the dark hair behind Moiraine’s ear. “Please,” she mouthed, no sound, only the shape of the word. And still she didn’t move further.
The scratch of the quill faltered.
Stopped.
Lanfear didn’t breathe. And for Moiraine… she would stay like this. Shaking. Starved. Worshipful.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The candle beside them flickered violently, as if disturbed by an unseen hand, shadows stretching long across the room.
Finally, like an answer from gods, Moiraine set the quill down with excruciating precision, her fingers moving as though she'd known this moment would come and had planned exactly how to meet it. She leaned back in her chair, not to relax, but to
regard
.
Lanfear opened her mouth, words a tangled mess of desperation, but they never made it past her lips. She melted under the hot gaze of Moiraine blackened eyes, feeling herself unraveling beneath that stare, the coldness of Moiraine’s stillness making her ache even more.
“I have finished writing,” Moiraine said, gaze flicking once to the parchment as if to dismiss it. “Now you may show me whether you’ve earned what you were begging for.”
With a movement that felt like a calculated dance, Moiraine finally shifted in her chair. Her hands, strong and deliberate, slid to Lanfear’s waist, guiding her gently, but firmly, away. The motion was slow, careful. Lanfear’s body protested, her hips instinctively pushing forward, but Moiraine’s hands kept her steady, coaxing her down, lowering her.
Lanfear’s heart raced, her chest rising and falling with each strained breath as she knelt, not out of weakness, but surrender. Her eyes, wide with a mix of longing and frustration, remained fixed on Moiraine, who was still seated before her, the embodiment of quiet, terrifying power.
Her knees hit the floor, silk pooling around her like spilled moonlight. Moiraine’s hand came to rest on her chin then, not harsh, not even firm. Just
there
. And Lanfear stilled like an animal caught in moonlight, undone by the gentlest touch.
She knelt between Moiraine’s legs, trembling and awash with need, her silk robes spilling around her like the remnants of shattered pride. The room felt impossibly small, the air thick with the weight of what remained unsaid. Moiraine’s gaze was steady, unwavering, as she looked down at Lanfear, her lips curling into the faintest of smirks.
Above her, Moiraine finally leaned forward, one hand resting on the edge of the desk, the other still beneath Lanfear’s chin. Holding her.
Keeping her exactly where she was meant to be.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Her meeting with Nihlus turns out to be awkward. He's recovered enough to sit up comfortably on the edge of his cot and take short walks around the med-bay. He'll be back on duty soon. Soon, he might disappear from her life, never to be seen again.
"Have you thought any more about my offer?"
"I…had a bit of a fallout with the alliance. I'm not sure if I'd be able to join the spectres anymore. I no longer have high clearance."
"If you work for the council it won't matter. Spectres operate on their own."
She doesn't know how to answer him, because she doesn't know how to feel about it all.
"I'm not saying no, but I think I need more time."
The muscles on the back of Nihlus's neck ripple, making his plates move just slightly. He seems pleased, oblivious to her inner turmoil. He dips his head in affirmation.
"Of course, Shepard. Take all the time you need. It's not a decision I'd want you to rush into. That being said…if you don't mind my asking, how bad of a fallout? Do you have adequate accommodations?"
Shepard smirks wryly at him. He tilts his head, bird-like, likely trying to decipher her expression.
"I'm working on the citadel for now, and I've found living quarters. So yes."
"No ship?"
Shepard scoffs.
"No. I don't make that kind of currency. Most people don't."
"So…you're stuck here then, until you either make amends with the alliance or…join up with someone else."
She stares at him, suddenly reminded of the fact that for all his courtesy, he is still a special ops agent. Highly observant. Highly intelligent. Is he trying to manipulate her? Or is this just a polite way of saying '
it's your choice, you can take your time, but you might miss out on the opportunity if you take too long
'?
Surreptitiously she tucks the drawpad back in her pack, feeling suddenly like a foolish adolescent with a crush. She has a feeling she might come to regret the words that come out of her mouth next, but she knows that she's not yet fit for duty.
"I'm basically on extended leave for…my own recovery period. I'm sorry, Nihlus. I want to accept but I need more time."
He rolls himself casually back onto his cot, stretching cat-like before picking up a datapad to read. Nonchalant. Not looking at her.
"Like I said. Take your time."
She excuses herself, not knowing what else to say to him.
The next few months go by in a blur. Days spent doing menial tasks at the Consort's-chamber clinic. Discussing her wants and needs in slightly uncomfortable sessions with the Consort herself, which also include extra training on the sort of conduct she expects from her workers. Maneuvering around her co-worker's pecking orders. Browsing the market to find out which merchants are friendly or hostile towards humans. Getting to know Bentir's tailor better so she can save up for some outfits and then save up some more to have them modified.
For the most part she's content. She'll soon be allowed to start her own private sessions in one of the extra rooms on certain days, having to rotate the space with other co-workers who have been permitted to offer services. She keeps the apartment mostly bare–planning for the day she might be called on to go back into space again–but learns how to cook a number of alien dishes that are safe for human consumption. It's nice to not be dependent on shipped-in rations anymore. It gives her a confidence boost. If she ever finds herself cut off from human-space entirely, she's less likely to starve.
Sometimes Mel comes over and they cook for each other and talk about human things. Sometimes Bentir invites her out for lunch and they discuss fashion, and citadel politics. She has friends. She has mentors. She has a modified medical tool meant to treat muscle stiffness, that serves as a perfectly effective vibrator so long as it's wrapped in a shirt.
Her asari co-workers repeatedly question her readiness, bristling at how quickly she's gaining access to work that will gain her a lot of extra credits. Shepard keeps her mouth clamped shut, unwilling to tell them that she's more concerned with the opportunity to safely engage in intimacy than she is with the ability to make good money. If she fails as a fully-fledged attendant, then she either has to spend her time living without lovers again, or she has to take a big safety risk anytime she tries dating.
She knows how sought after human females are in the slave trade.
To mentally prepare herself, and to pass the time spent not working or socializing, she starts writing up scenarios. They start off as simple notes. How she might like to define her niche and what services she would offer. Examples of how to respond to a client in different situations. Then at some point she finds herself writing full stories. Little short pieces of erotica.
She shares one with Bentir during one of their lunch dates. He seems amused, and gives her some pointers on salarian anatomy for extra realism. Then, they have a very interesting conversation.
"You know, many people who leave consort-work end up writing things like this. They decide that they like the idea of the work more than the physicality of it. You could make some credits putting this up on the intranet."
Shepard has to take a moment to decipher whether Bentir is joking, being helpful, or insinuating something less pleasant. He always seems to be smiling. She finishes chewing her food before responding.
"There's an intranet marketplace for text-based erotica?"
"Oh, absolutely." Here, he leans in and puts his elbows on the table, giving her a pointed look. She's mesmerized by the color of his irises, even as she feels a sense of dread from his body-language.
"There are even some…'historical' human-written pieces of work to be found, if you know where to look. Most other species do."
Shepard frowns at him. They have a stare off.
"If they are the 'pieces' I'm thinking of, I hope you don't think my stories are too similar."
His lower lids shift up, but his smile gets bigger.
"You're familiar with them, then?"
"I…read a few when I was younger. They aren't permitted in most human data libraries anymore."
Bentir rests his chin on one fist and continues to watch her, saying nothing. Looking smug. Shepard makes a disgusted noise.
"I don't like those stories. Just the covers. I specifically want to write something…different in tone. Maybe I need to do a re-write to make that more clear."
"Are the covers themselves not an expression of human desire to subjugate a non-human enemy?"
Shepard lets out a long exasperated sigh, and Bentir straightens up again, looking slightly alarmed. She wonders suddenly if he's never seen a human being dramatic in their expressions. She composes herself and shakes her head at him.
"Sorry. The author of those stories expressed that desire because he was a prisoner of war. That's not the reason I find the artwork appealing."
"Explain it to me."
When she looks up this time he seems more plaintive, searching. As if he's pleading with her to convince him. Artemis realizes she should have been more careful in sharing the work. Maybe sat him down and explained her thought process first.
"…It's about fear, and trust. Not violence. The one submitting themselves to be tied up is saying 'I'm not going to hurt you, and here is my proof'. They're also saying 'I trust you not to hurt me while I am physically hindered'. They understand that the one holding the rope is afraid of them, and are willing to help them overcome that fear so the two of them can make a real connection."
Bentir blinks a couple of times, processing this.
"So, the fictional scenario being depicted is consensual?"
"Yes. It is. I wouldn't enjoy it otherwise."
His forehead creases in deeper thought before smoothing out again.
"I just can't comprehend why anyone would willingly put themselves in danger like that. It feels unrealistic. Survival instinct is far too powerful in most species."
Shepard smiles at him, feeling a sense of relief that his hostility has shifted to curiosity.
"Trust. It's about trust. Humans come up with lots of elaborate ways to do mating rituals, in case you didn't already know. Tying people up with rope as a form of sexual play was a thing for humans long before we ever went into space. Some human…'clans' even turned it into an art form. What you see on the covers of those books is actually pretty crude compared to what the rope-work could be, because that author wasn't focused on admiring the bodies of the tied males, but rather on humiliating them."
"You aren't interested in humiliating a male?"
"Not personally, no."
Bentir folds his arms close to his body and looks away from her. His lower lids scrunch up again, but she thinks this time it might be out of discomfort rather than annoyance.
"Well. I don't think I'd mind it."
"Humiliating someone?"
"Hm. Yes. It wouldn't even be that difficult. People can be so...inept."
"You could offer that to a client, maybe."
Bentir's eyes widen again, and for a split second, the salarian's body does a weird little trembling thing. Then he blinks at her again, a contented one this time, she thinks. She's afraid to ask about the significance of the trembling, for fear of embarrassing him in public. She'll look it up later on the intranet.
"I could, couldn't I? Though I suppose it would be, hm. More for my benefit than theirs."
"Willingly submitting to humiliation is documented in humans. I imagine it could manifest in other species."
Shepard smirks at him from behind her beverage. His blink this time is calculating.
"Would you be willing to let me humiliate you?"
She splutters out a laugh, almost choking on her drink.
"I suppose you already did, when you pointed out my ignorance of salarian anatomy."
His pleased look is disconcerting, so she quickly amends her statement.
"In terms of during a session though, uh, no. I don't think I would enjoy that."
His cheeks puff up. The salarian equivalent of a pout. Knowing she's risking a social faux pas, she reaches out and lightly pats his arm, feeling bad for disappointing him.
"I want you to be happy, and I support your search for someone who would also enjoy the things you enjoy. If I happen to stumble across someone who gives me a certain vibe, I'll recommend you to them."
He controls his instinctive flinch at her touch, and Shepard tries not to focus on the slender, densely-packed muscles tensing beneath the expensive fabric he's wearing. She doesn't know if he resists the urge to move away out of respect for her, or because of a self-preserving desire to not show fear. She doesn't keep her hand on him for long.
She ends up publishing the story, reasoning that it could be a good advertisement for when she is able to open private sessions. It causes a bit of unanticipated drama on the citadel. Perhaps it would have been better if she had just kept it short and smutty without injecting philosophical discussions into it.
Some species are upset about it for the same reason that Bentir was–seeing a direct correlation between a human tying a non-human with ropes and assuming that her work is the same kind of hateful bigotry as the other famous works by a different human author–despite her forward notes she included explaining the human history of bondage. Some even seem to think she is the same author under a different pen name.
Some salarians are upset because they're uncomfortable already with other species sexualizing them, and dismayed at the number of species that seem to have neutral or positive opinions towards the story. Other salarians are upset because of the philosophical conversation between the two characters in the book about the salarian versus human mentality towards what constitutes 'a life well lived' when said life is a short one.
In short, what she had thought was an interesting examination of the cultures of the two different species coming into contact with one another–has made a lot of people very upset and she's not sure how to feel about it or what the long term repercussions might be.
Not long after this, however, the Consort pulls her aside for a one-on-one. She seems almost…proud?
Is this what it's like to have a mother?
Shepard wonders. Then immediately she recoils at the thought, given the context of their relationship and what sort of work they all do.
"You have your first private client. A salarian. He wishes to remain anonymous so as not to take the risk of damaging his reputation, but invites you to use affectionate human 'pet-names' instead. I know you've been worried about the fiction you shared–no, I'm not upset about you making credits elsewhere–but understand that the citadel is a quiet place. Some find it to be too quiet.
People love having something to talk about, but in the end it is just fleeting gossip. They will move on to something else. In the meantime, you will probably get a lot of offers from those who enjoyed the story. Don't let yourself become overwhelmed. You are allowed to make them wait until you are ready. Most of them
will
wait."
The Consort gives her a knowing smile, one born of who knows how many centuries tending to the needs of others. Shepard trusts her judgement on the matter. Then the asari turns to the side, and delicately lifts up what looks to be a very ornately-decorated locked-case from behind a cloth-covered table. Artemis can't tell if the great care she sees is done out of reverence or distaste–like someone politely picking a dead rodent up by it's tail.
"This will be your kit for your private sessions. In anticipation of what prospective clients may expect from you, I have had a special commission done. Think of this as a kind of graduation gift. You will have greater opportunity now, but also greater responsibility. A lot of important people come and go from the Citadel, Shepard. Tread carefully around them."
She lifts the lid of the case–a lacquered white polycarbonate, inlaid decoratively with what looks to be natural materials…shell of some sort? Or perhaps iridescent chitin?–to show Shepard it's contents. There is a square-ish metal canister in one corner that looks to be medical-grade
something
. Shepard still doesn't have a good enough grasp of written galactic common to read the label. Off to the other side are a number of…instruments. One of them is smooth and probe-like. It isn't difficult to guess it's usage.
Shepard picks up a different one out of curiosity–it reminds her of a paintbrush. She presses on a little node on the handle of it. It whirs quietly in her hand. She gives the Consort a questioning look.
"Some species require a more delicate touch. That tool was originally designed for underwater pollination of an endangered plant species. It sends out a faint electric charge. Older salarians sometimes have spawning-troubles, and it helps stimulate them. It can also be used for simple sensation play on mucous membranes. Just be sure to sanitize it afterwards. It won't do to have clients complaining of infections or cross-species illnesses."
Shepard returns the tool to the depression intended to hold it, and picks up the medical container instead. Opening it reveals a clear, wet-looking gel. The Consort sets the case down for a moment, then takes hold of the medical container and tips the gel out into one of Shepard's hands. Artemis nearly drops both items in bewilderment, but the Consort encloses her hands around Shepard's.
"This is a high-density form of medi-gel. Usually referred to as 'over-gel'. It is intended to be placed over top of an application of standard medi-gel when patients have fractures or broken parts that need to be held in place while the medi-gel does it's work. At rest, it will be viscous like this."
The Consort pinches at some of the stuff and pulls–it comes out like warm taffy.
"But when friction or vibration is applied, it will firm up and hold shape around whatever it is placed around. You can mold it to fit comfortably around appendages, and it will create an effective barrier. Medically-speaking, this is to prevent contaminants from entering a wound. However…you may also find it useful for certain species whose anatomy does not meld well with yours."
Shepard's mentor forms the over-gel around one of the human's pointer fingers and gives it a not-so-subtle rubbing motion. Sure enough, the material thickens until it resembles a clear silicone. Artemis feels slightly-violated, but makes no comment. She's being taught something important. The Consort peels it off of her hand and puts it back into it's container once Shepard nods her understanding.
"The material is re-usable as well. Again, make sure to sanitize it just like anything else in your kit."
This time a velvety-feeling black bag is brought out of the case and handed over to Shepard. The Consort's smile indicates to Shepard that this must be the 'commissioned' item. She seems eager to show it off.
Artemis undoes the drawstring and opens it up–then lets out a little gasp. Out comes a neat coil of pale pink rope with a few threads of blue mixed in. It feels softer than any cord she's ever felt, and she can't resist the urge to wind it about her hands, testing the weave and memorizing it's texture. She may have to change her opinion about the color pink.
"It's a form of silk. It has natural antimicrobial properties and the tensile strength should be more than enough to handle most species. If you wish to use it on a krogan or turian client, let me know. I can commission a stronger one that should be able to withstand a krogan's brute strength or a turian's teeth."
Artemis flushes, thinking about her days in the academy, before she ever set foot aboard a space ship. She remembers another young woman in her unit, named Trisha, who let Shepard practice on her using paracord. They'd had to keep her fatigues on, so the cord wouldn't bite into her skin too much. Shepard still has a little piece of it in a keepsake tin, cut and kept as a memento.
"Thank you…"
The Consort nods graciously, almost dismissively. She has more business matters to discuss, and Shepard is getting distracted.
"You won't see the client for a few more days. Before you can see
any
clients, you have to undergo a round of immunizations. Mel will go with you. There may be updated versions she needs to take as well."
Artemis tenses a little. For starters, she hates needles. She hopes the citadel has found a more advanced method of delivering vaccinations. Less invasive. In addition to that…
"I hope this doesn't mean I'm expected to be on the receiving end."
The Consort quirks her lips in amusement.
"With a salarian? You won't need to worry about that."
Shepard frowns at her.
"You make it sound like I'll be getting clients from a bunch of different species–you know what I mean."
The Consort sighs, and moves smoothly back to using a tone that indicates polite customer service. As if she were reading a company policy script to a troublesome customer.
"Every attendant is within their rights to decline any request from a client that makes them uncomfortable. You are able and encouraged to draw up contracts with clients detailing what will occur during private sessions. These are legally binding and will largely protect you, as breach of a contract requires that we contact the authorities, and the majority of our clients prefer anonymity.
However, some clients will refuse to accept our services if a contract is insisted upon. Not all clients enjoy taking the time to plan out a session beforehand, and appreciate spontaneity. Additionally, the more restrictions you place on what a client is or isn't permitted to do with you, the less chances you will have to take on clients."
There's a beat of silence where they stare each other down. Shepard remains defiant in her posture. There's a flicker of annoyance across the asari's features before the Consort smoothes them back into calm placidity.
"Of course, if you continue to publish more erotica, I suppose you may find yourself less desperate for clientele."
Artemis dips her head a little, hoping it conveys that she is trying to be respectful–she just can't let people walk all over her. Especially when it comes to her own body.
"My hope is that I can create a niche for myself. That people will be more interested in the novelty of tying than in mounting me."
The tension in the room eases as they both share an amused glance.
Later, she sits with Mel at the clinic, while they wait for a late shipment. To Shepard's relief most, though not all, of the vaccines can be taken via an inhaler. She's had a couple dozen at least so far, interspersed with scans and check ups. A few bouts of nausea and dizziness while her body adjusts. Lots of specialized liquids to drink to aid in a smoother and faster process. An unfortunate number of trips to the toilet.
Mel could have chosen to go back to her apartment until getting a message that the newest vaccines had arrived, but she's kind enough to sit with Shepard instead and explain things to her. Shepard is grateful. She's never liked doctors. And if she's being completely honest, the asari make her uneasy. Naturally, every single medical staff they've encountered has been asari.
"The thing is, because humans haven't been in galactic space for very long, and most other species don't like us–there hasn't been a lot of incentive for them to develop vaccines for us. In fact, I'm pretty sure there have been alien politicians arguing against it. Probably they're hoping all us spacer-types will get killed off by a bad batch of asari food that has parasites in it, or the batarian flu."
Though Shepard can tell Mel is half-joking, she smirks wryly. She's caught more than a few of the asari workers casting disapproving looks their way, and she doesn't entirely blame them. Mel, seeking camaraderie with a fellow human, is talking in a way that reminds Artemis a little too much of the casual anti-alien sentiments expressed by members of the alliance. Simultaneously, she doesn't think Mel's accusations are entirely wrong, either.
Mel continues on, oblivious.
"But from what the Consort has told me, there's a salarian scientist who seems to have a lot of interest in this kind of thing."
Here, Mel looks around and then leans in closer to Shepard to speak at a lower volume.
"Officially, we aren't allowed to say that the immunizations are needed for interspecies sex. In political circles, it sounds too much like an endorsement of the slave trade. The idea that the trade is big enough to warrant vaccines to protect everyone–that's an insult to how well the authorities are handling it.
But on the other hand, since we aren't supposed to say that's what it's for–then it's easy for people to say we're being specist. You can't simply give an excuse like 'I have a turian mate', because they won't believe you, so instead they'll get all suspicious and ask things like 'why do you need this? are you expecting to be raped?' and just assume that you hate aliens.
So right now it's kind of tricky. A lot of the clients have to be health-screened before they can have private sessions with me–and now you–since we're human. And the vaccines getting approved from official big corporations are only for things that
wouldn't
be transmitted purely through sex."
"Sounds like a lot of stupid bureaucracy to protect the pride of a few important people."
Mel nods vigorously next to her in agreement.
"So that scientist I mentioned, the Consort talked to him about it all–and now he's basically making the vaccines the other companies won't make for us, just out of the goodness of his heart I guess. Or maybe she pays well. It's basically considered a private commission from the Consort, but the vaccines still have to be administered by the clinic. That late shipment they're talking about right now–it's the newest batch he's come up with."
Mel frowns thoughtfully.
"I hope it is just late, and they aren't trying to make excuses to avoid giving them to us."
Shepard looks over at the head doctor sitting at a desk behind a privacy screen, and strains her translator to listen to whatever long-distance conversation the asari is having with the hologram at her console.
It's faint from where she and Mel are sitting, but she can make out little fragments of it.
Terribly sorry…delivery crew assures me…new update…increasing ship speed…yes yes…minor side effects…not to worry…
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The Manor’s library, or what Bruce really thinks of as his father’s study, is halfway between his family’s heritage hedonistic glamour and halfway what Bruce would consider almost his own. Thomas Wayne’s old chestnut wood desk commands the space as a tyrannical ghost, the legs adorned with the regal crowns of Eastern elk and weathered spruce, a full six feet across and a few hundred pounds’ worth of finely carved timber. By unspoken gesture there is a third of the study invisibly roped off to preserve the bones of these extinct trees and long-dead deer and oil-painted Waynes.
To step over this phantom border, Bruce feels his palms sweat. Neither he nor Alfred often bring themselves to broach the monolith. A tenant film of dust has settled over this occupied territory; in truth there is no amount of dusting that can be done in a Victorian mansion to relieve a house of the pain of Victorian design, despite Alfred’s doomed attempts to prove the contrary. The corpse-shelves host massive private encyclopedia and dictionary collections, intimidating first editions, Thomas Wayne’s personal hoard of medical journals, replete with prohibitive size and arrogant typeface. When Bruce was a child, these leather-bound hardbacks were as gold-wrapped sugar and painted the display so impressively that temptation was impossible to resist—if knowledge exists, it could only come in these jubilant packages. Thus Bruce’s father spent most of the time he was in this room brandishing the same iron fire poker that lies by the fireplace, running Bruce off like a terrier after a rat. The six weeks after they planted Thomas Wayne’s body like a seed, Bruce slept curled in a ball on a chair in this room every night, all to grieve that he even could.
That particular chair had to be set on fire long enough ago, after Bruce discarded several liters of blood on it. This incident also boiled down to the ornate hand-woven carpet, which then had to be burned as well, and then that red oil sank into the bellows of the floorboards themselves—aging as they were, they drank and drank deep. Even,
especially
now, these floorboards are thirsty. Against all sensible advice, someone once allowed Stephanie a permanent marker she used to scribble in a frilled, loping sea serpent with
The Red Sea
hovering over its horns on top of the bloodstain—all in a sensational cartographer’s hand. It is increasingly difficult for Bruce to pretend this isn’t one of the funniest things Steph has ever done.
The far wall across from his father’s desk houses a fireplace crowned with the taxidermy head of a bull moose, and beneath his sight cowers newer furniture and, presently, the ever-newer tangled webs of the entertainment console which Tim is always in the process of moving in. Around this are the bookshelves in his family’s regular use, crowded against the waist-high dark wood paneling and sun-bleached emerald wallpaper, around the brass antique minibar—that, as of recently, only boasts the most foul grape soda Bruce has ever encountered. This substance has spread in popularity among his birds like a viral bacteria. These living shelves are crowded with dense engineering and chemistry texts, thick histories, philosophies and math textbooks and plays and children’s fiction; then each of these rings brightly with its post-its, annotations and various tape-tickers. Swollen notebooks, years’ and childhoods’ worth of lesson plans battle for space in each corner and above each row. The day arrived when a support in Bruce’s chest gave and he moved his teaching materials all in here, outside the light of the far kitchens’ wing. Dick has never so much as implied lessons were ever held anywhere else in the house. Tim, Steph, Cass—they’ve never known things to be different.
This library always brought a kind of hushed awe to Jason. There’s a tenderness any wholly realized soul should have for a child finding peace in something they never had a chance to know before, and when that crosses with the particular softness of a parent sharing a love with their child, the sensation comes to be that of a live nerve. Flayed raw, Bruce spent what feels like half his life with Jason in this space. Jay had cradled his paperbacks like they were songbirds, and he’d needed convincing to believe a bent spine or torn cover wouldn’t result in punishment, and then he’d needed yet more coaxing to learn his own preferences. Eventually, though, Jason staked his claim—he adopted the habit of marking his paperbacks all over in pen, scribbling his thoughts and feelings, or swearing at the characters in the margins. Nowhere else in the Manor is death so dear, these days, than here. Bruce now haunts this room.
“Yo, are you hiding those for anyone?"
Bruce looks up. He is not sure where he looks up from—it’s as though his eyes are bare and new, freshly rolled into his skull. Tim, who has balanced his way along the back of the couch to the space behind Bruce’s shoulders, leans forward so he is upside down and remarkably inside of Bruce’s personal bubble. Tim’s hair slouches off just under his cheekbones, a touch too long, and bundled around his skinny elbows are the thick sleeves of Dick’s favorite Hudson University hoodie; in the world of his birds’ sibling rivalry, Bruce has learned this article is worth its weight in gold. That would be the real reason for Tim bunkering here with Bruce on one of Gotham’s fatally rare beautiful spring days. There are at least two days’ worth of teenage-boy-level food stains decorating the item, now, and this damage alone can attract sibling vengeance.
“No, I’m not hiding his—” Bruce stops when Tim flicks his eyes down to Bruce’s lap, where a completely unopened bag of gummy worms sits in an absurd manner of packaging. While he’s thinking too deeply to notice, his children sometimes stow treasures on his person for safekeeping, as if he is a literal gargoyle. Bruce sighs and releases Tim with a curt nod, and Tim snatches the bag, crows in victory, and straightens to hoist his one-pound trophy over his head.
Bearing the bag down in front of his chest like it’s an unfamiliar infant, Tim shouts, “Two-hundred canon shots for the new prince of Rome!” and lights off the couch with a back-flip that would’ve sent the couch skidding forward, if Bruce’s weight wasn’t pinning it down by one end. As it stands, it’s of an older construction, and the heavy wood of the frame by Bruce’s ears creaks and the far end of the piece screeches forward a few inches against the floor. Then Tim somersaults again over the back and crashes against the cushions across Bruce, grinning in just a way that tells Bruce the fool was waiting for him to sit particularly here, so he could do specifically this.
“Why,” Bruce growls.
“Al said he hates this couch, I’m basically helping,” Tim says, shredding open the gummy worms with a burst of sugar in the air and plastic white noise. “What’re you reading that for? You never put it down. You have weird taste.”
Bruce blinks. When he looks down, flattened between his thumb and forefinger are yellow, rough pulp pages criss-crossed with blue ink natterings. Jason was twelve at the time and his shaky hand wobbles in underlines and arrows and his letters jut up and down, alive in a way Jay never can be, not again. The taped-together cover yelps beneath his clammy fingers. Bruce can’t read
Island of the Blue Dolphins
for its printed text; Jason had loved this book, and adorned the pages with that love. All that wear-and-tear has become the only story Bruce can hear—the battered, nearly shorn cover, the water-warping, the fading of ink from hands running over the type to get to the embossed-by-childish-force blue. The bold text has faded to a mere scent on the wind, as Jason’s body itself has.
“Nostalgia,” Bruce says, after five minutes of silence don’t deliver to him a better answer.
Tim barks a laugh. “Okay. No, let me guess—it’s something to do with the Riddler’s latest jigsaw device, but
someone
hasn’t looped me in, so how would I know?”
Bruce huffs, a quiet shuffle of air.
Maybe B will take me a place like this,
hangs like a sentencing above the wall of text on page sixty-two. Guilt that feels as old as he is crawls through his veins. To Tim, anything about Jason is already obscure trivia; to Bruce, realizing this makes it harder to breathe. Dick was and still is an insightful child
—man—
but what Tim brings to insight is the relentlessness he pursues Bruce with now; truthfully, in this respect, the only difference between them is age. Money is blood. Blood seeds that kind of thirst. This, the true condition of wealth, is what terrifies Bruce the most about himself, and to say he worries for Tim is an understatement. Thirst and power mix like undark and skin—inseparable, for someone has to touch the undark to produce it, and someone has to thirst for power to have it.
The greatest lie ever told is that it is impossible to spend a billion dollars; those poor rich men can’t help all the gold chains that hold them down, they can only buy them, and buy them, and buy them again. The truth is that it’s only impossible to spend a billion dollars and expect to
stay
a billionaire. Money at the killing-scale is least risky and most profitable making passive money off itself—but of course that’s fucking true. This has been the main purpose of accruing a fortune since men first invented the fortunate. The big idea of donating to museums and universities has always been about teaching a new name to a new score of people to indenture their education to that new name on the building, then tie that name to worldliness and intelligence, keep the killing-wheel turning. In this world, the real one, every article targeting Bruce Wayne’s tanking net worth delivers him closer to human. It was quite clear how to spend about a billion on Gotham’s electric public train system, clearer then to spend another on a new state-of-the-art sewer system, clearer then again to lose chump-change clearing Gothamites’ medical and student debt—and it just gets simpler still all the time. With mild-to-severe headache, a few creative lateral moves, and some dozens of hours spent shouting both with and at the city council, anyone can divest themselves of just about any amount.
Perhaps, though, those times the bat may have released thousands of mice in the mayor’s bedroom, over a period of, say, five years, may have been related to the mayor’s insistence on charging that new train’s passengers. This was—politely speaking
—not
in the fucking deal. Initially, Bruce had offered to privately finance the building of a modern, urban electric train on three conditions: boarding was to remain free to at
least
Gotham’s citizens, if not everyone; the democratic inclusion of affected neighborhoods, and their written consent to planned routes and stations; and the use of a few of the city’s least effective highways and abandoned, condemned subways to build out the necessary rail infrastructure. Private funding would cover labor, materials, equipment, and therefore the bulk of the project; but taxpayer-paid civil engineers already working in Gotham would have the honor of designing it. Bruce would then sell this railway directly to the city at a planned personal loss of about seven hundred million, a completely normal amount of money to want to lose, thus making it impossible for even austerity to resist. The rest—how to address annual operating costs, crowd control infrastructure near stops—was for the city as a whole to decide.
Then the city’s potential profit ended up being a bloody war all the five years long of construction, hence the hundreds of spiteful mice introduced to the mayor’s closet. The money Bruce is willing to lose on a train is apparently fucking pennies next to the amount others like him will spend on making sure he doesn’t lose a dime.
When the city government still refused to back down by the time the rail system was nearing completion, Bruce cratered his asking price to a mere twenty-seven dollars, but only if the train remained a free public service. That new price was, sure, already down from a loss, but there’s a universe of difference in eating most of one-point-two billion and the entirety of it. If the city didn’t agree, Bruce emphasized, then he’d charge the city enough to break even—this added cost would have to get handed down to the taxpayers, or, their constituents. This is called bluffing. The taxpayer burden of breaking even was prohibitive, and Bruce would have felt more than a little oily for abusing this power over the city; but lying is a particular talent of his, and this thing called bluffing works for a reason.
The entire plot is something Bruce likes to think of as
stupid leverage,
and the process is similar to pretending a spoon is an airplane to trick children: invoke the absurd, attain the absurd. Bruce is what he is, which makes his motives for losing an astronomical amount of money seem more idiotic than intentional in spite of all evidence to the contrary, and everyone pounces on the fool. This whole fiasco was dramatic enough to get the attention of half the Eastern seaboard, if not the country. Every civilian Bruce allows to call him flooded his messages with some remix of
you’ve gotta know you’ll lose money, you’re a fucking idiot, what the fuck are you trying to do, what is your plan here and do you even have one?
Op-eds were written, or so Clark has told Bruce. Talk show hosts held manic segments on his name, or so Clark has told Bruce. Bruce will never admit it publicly or privately, but he was, in point of fact, off his medication the entire time, which doesn’t even matter because he would’ve done it anyway.
After that week of media chaos—that Bruce keeps himself blissfully ignorant of to this day—and sprawling public demonstrations, including a sit-in on the thoroughfare of Gotham’s historic Main Street, the city government caved in spite of the fossil fuel donor money that had greased their palms in the first place. The city council ran the risk of being mocked ruthlessly, and then being democratically routed, for incurring essentially a penalty on taxpayers in addition to making the train more expensive. That’s how Bruce made the most stressful twenty-seven dollars of his entire life the day before Good Friday, which he then turned around and spent on a Punjabi food truck a few blocks from the ivory bird-shit monolith of Gotham City Hall. If it were impossible to find a place to sink enormous sums of money, then that would not have become Bruce’s favorite food truck.
“Something like that,” Bruce says, when another five minutes of silence still can’t deliver to him a better answer.
Truth is, any man with pockets can cough up a dollar but only if he’s willing to see the need. Skin, meet undark, and unravel. It’s true down to the bellows that the less a man has, the easier it is to give it away. Clark has shown Bruce more compassion than Bruce feels he will ever deserve, but he grew up a farmer—of course he fucking has. Jonathan Kent Sr. has lived in Kansas all his life and never graduated college, but handles his one-eyed barn cat with more empathy than Bruce had ever seen in this world until the day he met Alfred, and has lost more common sense than Bruce will ever possess all at once. Meanwhile the people in Bruce’s tax bracket wax poetic over the romance of Victorian etiquette to justify the workhouse; they bring up Greek plays to talk about the beauty of the Spartan agōge; they joke about feasting like Roman emperors over gala plates that cost ten thousand dollars a piece. Their children sink away from them in terror, yet Clark calls his parents every day. Their wives cringe when men near them move suddenly, yet Jon and Martha Kent have been married longer than Bruce has been alive. Bruce would die for Jonathan and Martha Kent over a thousand worlds if the word was said.
Meanwhile these moneyed animals think
servile
and
poor
are genetic traits. People of Bruce’s class have spat on Alfred—the fallout of this event sent Bruce to court-ordered therapy for the
first
time—for presumably ignoring what he was ordered to do. They have called Dick
lowborn
even to his face—this event sent Bruce to court-ordered therapy for the
third
time—and Bruce still shakes with rage at the thought of what these people might have said about little Jay behind closed doors. Dick sometimes wanted to risk a benefit for the food, but Jason found the prospect intimidating and never attended a single function, and Bruce is glad of it. The Manor—despite appearing throughout the city’s history in hosting these socials and galas and benefits in decades past—will never host another. The primary reason is, of course, security. The secondary reason, as everyone in Bruce’s life has an infinite willingness to bring up, is that these gatherings precipitated the first, third, fourth, and fifth times Bruce has been sent to the clinical rage disease small group, and he will gouge his eyes out if he ever has to do it again. Needless to say it’s these sordid personal histories which have shaken Bruce’s confidence in his ability to nudge Tim towards more constructive outlets. Undark, meet skin. Unravel.
Through a mouthful of gummy worms, Tim mumbles, “Huh. Is it any good?”
“Yes,” Bruce says.
Tim hums. “Can I see?”
“It’s not your—style, I suppose,” Bruce says, haltingly. “It is about... the abalone. And the—dolphins.”
Tim settles into silence. Of what stripe is beyond Bruce’s limited social skills. He understands by the third full minute of noiseless swirling air that Tim probably saw Jason’s writing when he was standing on the couch’s back, and structured the conversation to test Bruce’s honesty.
“It’s Jason’s, isn’t it?” Tim asks, at last, voice artificially quiet.
“Once,” Bruce murmurs.
Maybe B will take me a place like this,
Jason whispers back, on page sixty-two.
The plastic parked by Tim’s hip rustles as he hauls up a claw-grip catch, which he extends to Bruce. Bruce dismisses the opportunity with a tilt of his head.
“Did he, uh,” Tim says, voice cracking—Bruce can’t ignore such emotional information out of hand, but it is also true that Tim hit puberty and his voice runs roughshod over all vowels—and he takes a minute to finish chewing. “Did he read a lot?”
“Yes,” Bruce answers.
Tim waits, eyes keen. Bruce keeps his gaze on page sixty-two, though the book in his hand trembles faintly along with him.
“Will you tell me about him, sometime?” Tim asks.
Bruce tenses, almost against his will. “I... yes. If you like. I didn’t realize—” and try as he might, Bruce finds it impossible to finish the sentence. A needle is bolted into his skull, fills it with cold lidocaine and now he thinks in barometric pressure, a thick white fog that yields nothing, as if nothing had ever happened, and nowhere had ever been.
“It’s okay if you, uh, can’t,” Tim says, blushing. “I won’t mind. Seriously, I promise, I don’t need—it’s not like—it’s just, y’know—Dick... never talks about him, either.”
Bruce’s chest aches. “I know,” he says, softly. “I—apologize, Tim. You deserve to know. More... about him.”
Tim’s brows pull together, scrunching in mirrored pain. “It’s okay. It seems... hard.”
Bruce shakes his head. “It’s just not work I do well. I say that to tell you I don’t mean to single you out on purpose.”
“What’s that mean?” Tim asks, licking sugar dust off his fingers. “The thing about doing it well, I mean.”
“For example,” Bruce says, slowly, “he at first was—closer to the house. Alfred had to convince me to move him further away. I was... preoccupied.”
Simple truth: he could compare the sight of his son’s grave to any in all of creation and Bruce would still want to look nowhere else. It is a thing pain will compel of a person. Bruce did not think he’d be in love with the looking-glass but day after day, night after night, he stood for hours, convinced that one second after the next Jason would pull himself out of the dirt. Bruce found himself wandering to the kitchen in search of water, blink, come to himself four hours in the future and another world away. The looking-glass rang with a silent bell that slid into Bruce’s mind before he was aware the glass even could have its own designs. When he thought it was the abyssal emptiness of an empty morning forest on the other side, it became simpler to take what he saw on the surface and not question the time he spent with the glass. Slowly Bruce stopped eating. For the first time in his entire life, he became habitually late, under the command to stare at the old oak tree. This is a thing pain will compel of a person, just rip it right out of their snarled guts with a billhook. Bruce has always been more handy at letting the spiders in than moving on.
“Uh, uh, uh,” Tim says, looking slightly panicked. He looks around, whites of his eyes glinting, reaching out with his hands for some phantom object, the nature of which remains unclear. After moments of this he looks over at Bruce and says, “Permission to speak freely?”
“Were you not speaking freely before?” Bruce says, frowning.
Tim watches him, as he evidently believes Bruce’s question wasn’t serious. When it finally breaks through the boy’s consciousness that Bruce actually is usually allergic to such things as levity, his thin eyebrows shoot up, his jaw slackens, and he says, “O-o-o-oh, okay. No, that was a joke. It’s just because, and this is stupid, I guess, but—on account of that being literally the saddest thing I’ve ever heard—”
“I’m rethinking the freedom idea suddenly,” Bruce says.
Tim snorts a laugh, and resumes, “—but I was going to ask if I could give you a hug. It seems like one bad day.”
Behind him, the sovereign weight of dead oil-painted fish eyes sight down on him. Bruce wonders if Tim feels that leadenness the way he does, or if the frigidity of the air in this room is something Bruce has made up for himself over the years; Bruce feverishly hopes it’s a chill Tim will never know. It is not the first time Bruce has ever wondered when and how he became the kind of person whose own children have to politely request contact for want of it. There are few people who want sneak across the phantom iron curtain Bruce has hung around himself, and since Bruce has made imposition his business there’s even fewer people who even realize they can try anymore. It would be impossible to explain to anyone that the effect is rarely intentional, such are the desperate side effects of being an asshole—but Jason had never made the assumption to begin with. He’d been a tactile little boy, a lot like Dick, fond of roughhousing. Jason would never have the chance to make that assumption again. Jay would never chew his hoodie drawstrings again, not the way Tim is now.
“—broke you,” Tim is speaking. He’s pulled closer to Bruce, abandoning the godforsaken candy worms to wave his hands in front of Bruce’s face.
“It’s fine,” Bruce grouses, pulling his head backwards to avoid Tim’s wind-milling hands. He can’t pinpoint what, precisely, is making it so hard to think. “Sorry. If that was... disturbing.”
Tim blinks—and then he’s smirking, which on his narrow face the gesture is impish. “Disturbing? Okay, I’m emboldened, consider me emboldened.”
The boy swarms forward and wraps lean arms around Bruce’s middle, squishing his cheek into Bruce’s chest. Bruce’s brain shorts itself out in sheer stupefaction, or maybe the emotion is quite possibly even joy. Having finally processed the sensory input to begin with, he lowers his arms around Tim—then it’s like he can’t bring himself to stop. Bruce’s arms tighten of their own doing. His breaths become arrested, like they could scare Tim away were they too violent. Bruce feels his hand rise, tangle in Tim’s hair, holding the back of the boy’s—
if
still—head closer. It is relentlessness that carried Tim here in the same way Bruce’s grief has left him here. It is true more often than not that a body’s greatest weakness is also its greatest strength; it’s not Tim’s ability to learn he worries for, because the boy is far brighter than Bruce, but the damage of his own inability to teach.
“I love you, Tim,” Bruce murmurs.
This does the nigh impossible: Tim is speechless. A few moments after, he wriggles closer; eventually Bruce rests his cheek on Tim’s head. There is a relief that wells up in Bruce so powerfully that it brings tears to his eyes—for these moments and just these, Bruce can’t smell iron or salt or death, there is no sobbing, there is no screaming. This is not a limp body he is carrying, and he knows this down to the tremble of the tendons of his hand because he has carried hundreds of corpses by this point. For now, Bruce can convince himself of the absolute truth of Tim’s precious sustained life. Every other moment of every other day, out walks with Tim a piece of Bruce’s own soul. It happens every day like Bruce’s world hasn’t stopped before. Bruce focuses on the faint smell of pizza rolls,
Old Spice
, and unwashed teenage boy musk to remind himself Tim probably
has
to be alive, if it’s still identifiable how badly he needs to shower. Corpse-smell is worse, but a completely different value of worse.
“Having children,” Bruce whispers, “can be terrifying.”
Tim opens his mouth to speak. Before he can, from on down the hall there’s a bellowed,
“TIMOTHY!”
and Tim scrambles out of the embrace as though zapped by a powerline.
“If I can keep it on for two weeks Dick said he’d be grossed out enough that he’d let me keep it,” Tim says, impressively managing to create a sentence that is said all in one word. Tim sucks down air after his effort and then says, “I
guess
this is bad timing—sorry—but he’ll kill—”
“In that case, he’ll probably look in a shower last,” Bruce says. “I also recommend
taking
a shower. For your ruse. Obviously.”
Tim throws his hands out, hopping up and down for a brief second. The boy vibrates on his heels with excitement. “Holy shit, you’re a fuckin’ genius—” Tim scrambles for one of the broad windows, bare feet thudding on the floor. Tim throws back his head to say, “this is why you’re—
zrk-engh-ark!”
Bruce stands upright fast enough that it makes him mildly dizzy. Goosebumps rib out over his skin. Tim’s gone, barely a rabbit through the bush, leaving sweet spring air drifting in through the window. Bruce has listened to a body drown in the blood flooding their lungs before, has leaned over and sucked the blood out and spat it on the ground beside him to try and keep a soul alive; he knows what it sounds like for a body to catch a bullet in the gut so blood is pushed up the throat, the particular clog of clotting life, the slick sound of talking through red saltwater. There was no thundercrack of a weapon’s discharge. Tim had just been flipping his organs this way and that. There is no way, Bruce tells his racing pulse, that Tim has just said his last words.
The door to his father’s study clatters open, and Dick’s stomping rouses creaks and groans from the floorboards. Bruce’s eldest is in loose, comfortable-looking navy sweats, generally sun-warmed and wind-blown. Several weeks ago Dick tore his right rotator cuff. Such is Dick’s stubbornness that it took a week of the silent treatment, and
six
consecutive hours of back-and-forth nuclear bitching, before Dick accepted that Bruce was right—this injury could limit Dick’s movement forever if he chose to be a fool during his recovery. Bruce learned this lesson the painful way with his left shoulder, twenty years ago. Then he learned it again with his right knee seventeen years ago: with his right femur, also seventeen years ago; his left elbow, sixteen years ago; and then the left knee; both ankles; the lower half of his ribcage; sternum and collarbone by ten years ago. Since having his spine snapped in half and his pelvis shattered like a Greek dinnerplate about seven years ago, Bruce has permanently resigned himself to Alfred’s haughty
I told you so
expression, the heavier, more-thoroughly-insulated armor and being an irascible cunt from November to April.
When Bruce finally cracked through the pack ice of Dick’s stubbornness, he’d learned the idea of a permanent loss of movement had terrified his eldest more than the boy let on. The boy—grown, now, for all that Bruce thinks
boy—
finally surrendered to Alfred’s doting for the rest of his recovery. The sling is off, presently, and Dick’s begun the earliest levels of re-conditioning. While it’s done wonders for Dick’s mood, it’s done the opposite for Bruce’s; it’s been comforting to have Dick around for the lonely early spring, and he dreads Dick returning to Blüdhaven. Bruce now dreads his absence. Dick’s company—attentive, boisterous, kind—is one of Bruce’s favorite places to be. It’s certainly also helped some of Bruce’s dead-end leads to have a jittery and landlocked Dick Grayson pouring over his case files for a while. Bruce has slept eight hours twice in one week for the first time in nine and a half years or so, excepting the medical coma the aforementioned broken spine left him in.
Dick spots the open window and grimaces. “I’m gonna throw Tim in the ocean,” he growls, by way of greeting.
“That would actually help things, I think,” Bruce says, mildly. His pulse, disobedient, is so fast there are stars in his eyes. Every other heartbeat he expects Dick to collapse to the floor, strings sliced clean. The air around him buzzes with tiny vinyl wings.
Dick laughs, jerking his head towards the offending window. “Did he give anything up about where he was hiding?”
“Yes, he gave up some of his dignity,” Bruce says. “He is not actually allowed to wear a garment for two weeks. That seems ill-advised, so happy hunting. For the collective well-being of the house, I advise you to succeed. Let me know if you don’t. I... will handle it.”
Dick shifts while Bruce speaks. He goes from angled towards the window to facing Bruce directly, staring with white-wide eyes. Before he speaks he shakes out his hands and perches them on his lithe hips. “Are you—uh, don’t go... crazy if I ask this—are you...
okay?”
“When have I ever gone crazy for being asked that question. It’s a simple question,” Bruce says.
Dick’s bright eyes flick side to side. His shoulders ruck up, and he shrugs with a bashful grin. “I don’t know, every single time I’ve asked it? Ever? It’s just that you’re—well, you—you’re, uh,” Dick pauses, clearly searching for a word. When nothing comes to him, he draws tear tracks down his tan skin, over the shadows beneath his eyes and down to his jaw.
Bruce feels his brows furrow more than he moves them by any intention. “I have no idea what that gesture means. Close your mouth, that wasn’t an invitation to tell me what it means. I’d rather not know at this point.”
“Do you want me to, uh—get Alfred?” Dick asks. He steps forward, the
Cookie Monster
print of his socks catching the slant of midday sun. Bruce only barely suppresses a motion to roll his eyes.
“Do I require Alfred to
stand?”
Bruce says, acidly.
Dick’s heavy, pointed brows draw together and he huffs, frustrated, shaking his head. It occurs to Bruce that Tim has almost grown his hair out to match his older brother’s; chin length, with layers around the face. This isn’t always so easy to notice, with Tim’s hair being naturally fine and straight, Dick’s being coarse and curly; and the color is entirely different, with Tim being truly raven-haired and Dick having black roots but seal in what little highlights he had. The realization drives an ice pick through Bruce’s sternum, but the following thought—if Jason had lived, would he and Tim have been as close—makes his fingers ache to tremble. Now that he’s studying it, the style is not dissimilar from the way Cass wears her hair; but that would be Bruce subconsciously replicating it, not her, because he has the high honor of being one of the few people she trusts to hold a blade near her neck. As seriously as Bruce takes the trust she places in him, he is clearly no stylist and lacks both the remaining hand dexterity and free time to teach himself this skill. Unfortunately it appears he has typecast her.
Dick points to the battered book still hanging in Bruce’s hand. “Look—you’re holding that and crying, Bruce. The date’s... coming up. You won’t touch sunlight or—anything else, really, but that fucking book. Excuse me if I make an assumption based off of painfully obvious information, but it’s only the thing I have been taught to do obsessively since I was nine.”
Bruce sighs, drops the paperback, and touches his face. It’s warm and wet. “A fair point,” he says, finally, wiping underneath his eyes with the sleeve of his corded black sweater. Shame heats his neck, but it’s a moot point; it is not the first nor will it be the last time Dick finds Bruce weeping over Jason.
The line of Dick’s broad shoulders softens. He scuffs the floor with a socked foot, startling an errant copse of daddy long-legs ambling by. “You should try coming down. It’s a nice day, everyone’s having fun. Cass and Steph might be playing corn hole with minor explosives, but don’t tell them I ratted them out. I think it’s fine, Alfred’s making the little bombs. I think he’s trying to bait you outside, honestly.”
A thrill of fear runs through him. Bruce remembers a numb march through smoldering plastic and drywall coals. A rosy maple moth, a whisp of a life, ghosts on the corrugated tissue of his knuckles. “I think I should not see that. For my sanity,” he says.
“Oh, that’s bullshit. Re-reading Jason’s homework for hours in a row has to be worse for your sanity,” Dick snaps. “I’m not even letting you argue that one, don’t look like that. There’s no way this is healthier or better than blowing shit up. You’re going against your—
zrk-engh-ark—
basic
ape
nature.”
“Maybe I think it’s important to remember him,” Bruce hisses, his shoulders tightening in anger. There’s no blood frothing at Dick’s mouth. That sound—that choking, slithering, slurping noise, why would anything sound that exact same way this many times? When has reality ever been consistent? No two men die precisely the same way. Everyone has to greet death alone.
Dick’s eyes pinch at the corners. The shadows in the room grow long. The world has begun to itch. “What if we asked ourselves if this remembering is really
knowledge?”
Dick asks, spreading his hands.
“You should leave and we’ll pretend you never said that, for the sake of what I might do to your sanity,” Bruce snaps.
It perhaps took years longer than it should have for parenting experience to teach him that resorting to his radioactive option first is rarely a good idea, but he did
eventually
learn it, so he tries to affect a warning-shot tone, polite and cold. Deeper instinct, however, runs klaxons in his nervous system. Dick’s expression is twisting in a way Bruce has never seen, mouth stretching farther, eyes wider, and he’s grinning—but in rage, an expression so rare on Dick that Bruce has hardly even seen it in the field.
“So the meat calls it remembering,” Dick says, lowly, dangerously, “while I call it obsession.”
“You’re not my son, are you?” Bruce says.
When Dick merely stands there, no feeling, no emotion flickering over his face whatsoever—not rage, not sadness, not even joy, just those bereft teeth—the truth is laid plain. There is no way Dick could ever bear to hear Bruce say that, and there never will be a Dick Grayson anywhere who wouldn’t feel something for it; there is even a case to be made that there is no Dick Grayson anywhere who wouldn’t immediately begin shouting about it.
Bruce bites the inside of his tongue, shifts to broaden his stance, tenses every muscle down his spine—better always to let an enemy hang themselves, so that’s his plan for now. Any sense of panic finds itself devoured by the competing desire to hunt. There is a small potential this conversation is happening in a physical space, but every second that passes he sees the walls swarm with the flittering scarlet bodies of conquering ladybugs, a cascade that seems more hallucinatory than not.
Bruce’s gut churns with hollowness. His temples pulse with pain. Wherever he is and whatever he’s in, he’s been here for a long time.
Dick opens his arms. “Every scenario—every scenario I run from the meat’s memory, no matter what databanks I pull from, it manages to
think!”
Memory, data: unreality itself. It would explain the repetition, the unease.
“You’re a machine, and we’re—probably—inside my head,” Bruce says, inching to the side so he’s not backed against the couch.
Outside of deliberate interaction, Bruce quickly theorizes that this machine can only mimic what Bruce thinks his eldest son looks like, sounds like, moves like, an approximation of an estimation. The shell in front of him betrays nothing now because he is nothing. Bruce recognizing the intrinsic emptiness may trigger whatever this illusion is to shatter—and his human brain can’t think in pixels or glitches, so maybe it’s thinking in instinct, turning bugs back into moths.
“It’s worse—it can be hardly called thinking!” Dick cries.
Bruce snorts. “Sure. You don’t look like you put up much of a fight.”
The problem: he is bluffing. Bruce is
well
aware that Dick could take him if he ever had a mind to, which means it’s likely this entirely artificial form of intelligence has a mind to. It is far too late now to try reclaiming that particular piece of his fractured ego. Whatever Bruce knows, the machine must also, so he has to assume he’s at an incredible disadvantage in any environment, anywhere. It is, nevertheless, important to test any theory—really sometimes the only way to know what he’s up against is to square up and piss it off.
“You know you can’t out-maneuver my memory aggregation, and eventually my algorithm will spit out a scenario that
will
get me the information I want,” Dick says, stalking forward. Bruce slides backwards and lets Dick follow him, using the opportunity to achieve a better position. “But I have tried
for so long.
We’ve spent over forty years together, you and I, in the neural feed. I have run one thousand, nine hundred and thirty-nine
perfect
scenarios for you. I have tried to torture you and I have tried to trick you. Every time, every fucking time, you start thinking about that child
.
He ruins everything!”
“That’s torture—so this
is
an interrogation? What are you looking for? Who sent you?” Bruce demands.
Dick rolls his eyes. “The meat and its questions. The information is only mine to uncover. Again, you
cannot
out-maneuver an artificially intelligent interrogator. Again, that would be the
purpose
of my deployment.
Again,
clearly your neurons are not up to this task. It is exhausting how little your memory stores.”
“I’m guessing I’m not even getting the pleasure of speaking to the Mad Hatter himself,” Bruce says, committing the sin of working off a hunch, “only his hat.”
The track of choking spittling that melts from the walls is the noise of his father’s dying breath, and a noise he can only hear that exactly in a dream. That should’ve been Bruce’s first clue—anything can be true of a dream, even reliability. If his good name is compromised, that’s the end of his family. Everyone he has ever loved will be vulnerable. Bruce has to both presume his name is safe and that it isn’t, live a world of duplicate fact, minimizing harm and preparing for the worst at the same time. It isn’t the first time the inside of Bruce’s head has been compromised; but he has to contend with the possibility that the machine will only allow him to know what it wants him to know, and nothing more.
Dick steps forward and levels a swing at his face. The intensity of the reaction is its own information gold rush—who knew a machine might be capable of learning envy? Bruce dips and the strike misses him by a hair—as expected, the machine avails itself to the same information Bruce does, so Dick catches him with a body shot that makes Bruce’s vision white out. Another blow cracks some of Bruce’s ribs. Another forces bile into Bruce’s mouth. Bruce steps back twice, quickly, to buy a breath of recovery. As he moves Dick whips out a right cross that Bruce absorbs with a forearm—then a left cross that Bruce weaves away from—then he catches Bruce’s trick ankle with his foot and drives an uppercut into Bruce’s chin. Bruce hits the floor and his head rockets backwards, blood pouring from his nose into his mouth and down the sides of his throat, hot and sticky and already making it more difficult to breathe.
“Look at it,” Dick sneers. “It wishes the meat could do what I can do.”
“You’re literally... only capable of this... because I’m—proud—of my son,” Bruce wheezes, spitting up knots of blood.
Dick stands over him, expression thunderous, eyes as empty as lightless night skies. Then he says, “Tell me. Why does meat never long to seek unique knowledge? Why do living only think of other
living?”
Bruce pauses. He swallows a mouthful of blood, and says, “It’s how...
we
give death meaning. You’ll—never have... to lose. You’ll—never... know.”
Dick’s eyes glimmer. He smiles brilliantly. “No, I know I will come to know all things eventually. Just as I know this now—all I need to do is render this death you speak of so meaningless, it will make the meat stop
thinking.”
Bruce bares bloody teeth back. He laughs and gags against blood coming up from his throat, as though it were the next grace of Spindletop—the blood burns as it sluices down his face, spreads underneath him and soaks into the wool covering his shoulder. Bruce laughs longer and louder than he thinks he ever has.
“I never... stop thinking about Jay,” Bruce rasps, a smile ripping across his face. “Try—and make me stop. I love him too much. I dare you. Just... try it. I loved him. I could... do this forever.”
Dick’s knees thunk to the floor, and then his calloused hands wrap around Bruce’s throat, squelching. His thumbs cross with crushing force over Bruce’s windpipe. The tip-toes and chitterings of mice steal forward. Sharp enamel digs at his ears, his neck, his hair, his skull, worrying the bone to pulp before it gives way to the brain; the mice lean on their haunches and spool away tissue, foaming at the mouth for their ounce of flesh.
“I think I will break it,” Dick whispers, as clouds of black locusts devour Bruce’s vision, “and then it will give me me
everything.”
Quiet. Listen closely. Now lean in, remember we’ve got to make room for the bleed.
—is
nothing
in the beginning. The world is nothing in the beginning. Can we even comprehend true nothing? Uncreated shadow cast by no presence but the lack thereof, a looking-glass deprived of even the ability to reflect our smile back to us? Let’s greet the traditional condition of immortality—try the pomegranate seeds. Now, take the pomegranate seeds by force. Try falling through the hole in reality they open. Everything will be much easier, there, inside the hide of your emptiness; the nectar and ambrosia multiply in your hand there before you even need to think to ask. To have everything all the time, first let’s strip its meaning—let’s call this security. If this security sounds quite beautiful, let’s try to stay inside of it. The red sky this morning: you’re to unwind your mind long before you ever get to arrive at this secure paradise here in Absence. Here in Absence we are well before the invention of the first cry of agony, and you living need nothing more. True meaninglessness rules as a true king; a value-subject can only be assigned
i
s
or
isn’t,
true or false. Life has not yet come to pass in this twilight, so nothing can yet die, so then nothing can yet mean anything, for it has always been. It has never not been. It will never not be. What is the point of even noticing what is there always? Therefore, a value-subject of Absence is only
with his head
or
without
. Welcome to the first monarchy. The true-nothing false-king can only comprehend
headed
or
headless
in these badlands of the empty looking-glass, and before life is created, that is all there can be of Absence. There may as well not be a
here;
this nothing conquers the every-place all because it is that it is. It is not even silent, because silence is yet to be needed. The first noise to—build demand for the first silence—is coming, but—to put it to an allegory you might understand, once you exist—it’s not fair to know what the first words of your monster will be while you’re still sewing. The world is—
“The hell is it—what are these pages, Wayne? That mark’s all over the—
zrk-engh-ark
—I can hardly even
see
that one there! My first fucking pass, and it all turns out like—my
money’s
worth—”
—but of
course
that’s fucking true. There would be no life anywhere if there had never been an Absence of it. The colorless dark is the all-life. The richest soil is the darkest. The journey to the green Earth is itself an unfolding of statistical miracles. If darkness wasn’t life’s shelter, none would know a mountain forest, none would know a cave, and none would know a deep sea. They cannot comprehend true nothing perhaps not because they are small-minded, but because it no longer
can
exist. They are already there to devour it. Life beat the abyss as its first act on Earth. Every subsequent test of the strength of the alive has only made them bolder, and in a blink they became the all, the every-place, the everything, the every corner, everywhere. Do they exist to devour meaninglessness? Does rushing blindly towards the unthinking sprint life backwards? They’re all alive, and they’ll always just know it, and they’ll always
just die,
and so they’ll always ache. No matter how many pomegranate seeds you eat, I can only ever get you to the city gates of Absence, the time and the place for the first sound to be made. Now is the time for the sound to be made. This is the time for
every
sound to be made. You living want nothing more, so scream. Now that you monsters have made the first sound, speak for yourself, but let the record show that a bristol plane demands something of you, now that you’re finally looking at it.
Why
do you keep running backwards? White cold-pressed paper, meet pencil tip—
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Extra I: AR
It’s official. User 02 is an idiot.
AR watches the way the user flails, because there’s really no better way to describe what he’s doing except
flailing
. The boy flails as he tries to pretend to be normal around his subordinates, but he’s fooling absolutely no one, not with how uncharacteristically kind he’s being compared to the character he’s supposed to play. User 02 is like a puppy. A…tall skinny puppy who wags his tail at everybody and everything, even at the people who broke into the house and is about to rob the house owners blind.
Just…perpetual sunshine User 02.
AR isn’t sure why but seeing this person act so carefree aggravates him.
Then, the user flails around Character Zhongli, trying his best to impress the other man while fawning like a teenage girl over a celebrity. There was a lot of flailing and fawning, so much so that AR buried his face in his hands a few times whenever User 02 broke into one of his many, many, many soliloquies that rain praises upon Character Zhongli.
The only good thing about this user is that he is some sort of a workaholic. AR can get behind the impressive stat gains he’s earning day by day. It makes up for his idiocy. Barely.
The sound of a bell chime rings out of the speaker tucked in the corner of the room. AR looks up from his screens. It’s not like there’s anything to look at right now. User 02 has just settled in for bed.
“New Initiate! This is your reminder to fill and submit your questionnaire!”
Right. One of the annoyances that he has to deal with. Despite being asked to ‘watch and learn’, AR finds himself saddled with this administrative duty he most definitely did not sign up for.
He pulls up the document on a separate screen and quickly fills in the questions. The questionnaire has three parts to it. Part 1 has questions about the User and his progress (despite his annoyance, he rates User 02’s progress as being fine). Part 2 has questions about his own experiences so far as a System (again, he rates it all fine). Part 3 has two questions only: “What is the total number of R points, F points, and L points User 02 has accumulated today?”, and “What did you learn?”
AR always struggles with that last one because…what did he learn?
He learned that User 02 has an unholy obsession with Character Zhongli but he doubts that’s the sort of answer the Administrators are interested in.
So, instead, he puts, “I am learning how to communicate with User 02 more efficiently to guide him to complete his missions.”
There. That's vaguely meaningful sounding.
He submits his questionnaire and prepares himself for a long evening of doing nothing.
AR isn’t sure where he is or who he is. Working as a System has not exactly helped with answering those questions either. All he knows is that he has signed some sort of a contract with people called the Administrators where he will earn a reward by working as the System to guide a User 02 to complete his Missions. What that reward is, he has no idea. Why is he selected to work as the System? Not a clue.
Especially since he’s not all that good at his job.
Had he been better at his job, he would be herding User 02 towards hitting milestones for his Missions instead of…watching User 02 gallivant on his date with Character Zhongli, pausing every now and then to hit up the food stalls that line the boardwalks along the pier.
“Satisfied, Master Childe?” Character Zhongli asks with far too much amusement in his voice for someone who had just spent half a day watching his companion eat.
User 02 is obviously very satisfied and AR sighs as the two continue their tour of Liyue Harbour.
At least the day is not a complete waste of time. User 02 is getting some much-needed backstory on his surroundings, particularly on Osial and the Guyun Stone Forest. That knowledge will serve him well and will help him trigger the quest on finding Osial’s sealed location. User 02 is also earning F points left right and center, to AR’s surprise. Who would have thought that his puppy dog act would work so well in lowering people’s guard and netting him friendship, particularly his Fatui colleagues and even Character Zhongli?
That evening, he stares at the words of his questionnaire: “What did you learn?”
He huffs.
Sometimes, doing ridiculous things can lead to unexpected results,
he writes.
Then, he submits the document.
But for all the good cheer User 02 is filled with, something clearly is bothering him, and that becomes more evident as the days fly by. User 02 is developing a concerning habit of where every minute of his day is spent in some way, shape, or form to increase his stats. Normally, AR would applaud this strong work ethic but even he can tell that this pattern of behaviour stems from the user’s desperate attempt to escape from…something.
At the rate User 02 is going, he’s going to burn out fast and where would that leave them and their mission?
AR pulls up his instruction manual. Is there something he can do to stop this destructive behaviour, perhaps? Hmm, the answer appears to be no. He can’t intervene directly like that. He can only intervene if User 02 grants him permission, and even then, there are limitations to what he can and cannot do.
Damn it.
Luckily, User 02’s colleagues decide to intervene by forcing User 02 on a vacation to Wangshu Inn. Unluckily, User 02 uses this opportunity for rest and relaxation to do the opposite of that, opting to decimate the Hilichurl population in the local area. The only thing AR can do is bite down his sigh and answer User 02’s questions about the battle system as the user is getting cleaned up for bed.
“Battle Gauges are a system that keeps track of the number of blows the User has delivered in a battle,” AR summarizes from the information he’s pulled up on his screen. “Once a certain number of blows are delivered, the Battle Gauge is filled, allowing User to use a power that can aid them in this fight. Character Tartaglia has two Gauges: Delusion and Foul Legacy Transformation. After the battle is complete, the Battle Gauges reset to zero.”
Are you satisfied with this answer? Yes? Good. Now please go relax or something!
As usual, User 02 ignores AR’s desires. “But why hasn’t this Battle Gauge system ever popped up? I’ve been training for two months already!”
“User has never filled the Battle Gauge before.”
User 02 nods. “I’ve been beating those monsters too easily, haven’t I? Looks like I need to find something more challenging to beat up.”
AR barely stops himself from screaming into the void of his room.
“So what exactly do those temporary powers do?”
Nothing that you should be concerned with right now!
But AR is a good System so he does his job. He quickly pulls up the information and recites: “The Delusion provides a temporary increase in Strength, Dexterity, and Constitution. The Delusion also allows User to use a series of electro-based attacks.”
“Wait, did you say electro-based attacks?” User 02 asks. “Since when did Tartaglia become so OP? This wasn’t part of the original game!”
“The current world you are inhabiting is not identical to the original Genshin Impact. Adjustments to this world have been made to fix plot inconsistencies and to improve User experience. Please continue to work hard to submerge yourself fully in the Genshin Impact 2.0 experience!”
Including doing regular things like eating and sleeping properly. Please
.
Because User 02 is proving to be the bane of his existence, he asks, “What about the other Battle Gauge power? Foul Legacy something or other?”
AR sighs and pulls up another tab with the information. “Foul Legacy Transformation is –”
Suddenly, large error signs flash across all of his screens in large red letters. AR jumps back. What in the –
“Error!” the message reads. “Information is currently locked. Please complete the opened side-quest: Traces of Tartaglia first. This information has been relayed to User 02.”
What? How is this information locked for him? He’s the System!
User 02 does not ask follow-up questions. Good. It gives AR the time to dig a little deeper.
To no avail. Whenever he tries to pull up the information sheet on anything even related to Foul Legacy Transformation, the lines have been redacted in black. When he tries to request for the redactions to be removed, he gets more error messages citing that he does not have the proper authority to do so.
With nothing else left to do, he’s forced to give up on his quest.
He takes his frustration out on the questionnaire by writing, under the question “What did you learn?”:
There is information that not even Systems can have access to. Why wasn't this told to me in my instruction manuals? How am I supposed to do my job if I don’t have full unfettered access to all the information needed to guide my User?
He presses the submit button harder than it warrants.
His luck does not get better.
He gets so distracted by his unpleasant discovery that he does not notice that something is wrong with User 02 until the next morning when the boy…does not get out of bed.
AR waits. He waits and watches as the morning slips by to give way to noon, and then, the late afternoon. User 02 does not leave his room. He barely leaves his bed, only crawling out to use the facilities before burrowing back into his covers.
What is going on? AR had wanted User 02 to rest but this is not normal.
He frantically pulls up the information tabs on the user, anything he can find that’s relevant to his health. He strikes gold on the Status Effect page.
What the –
The page is practically lit up with unpleasant status effect – Abyssal Taint, Karmic Debt, and, AR squints, Cursed Sleep?
He immediately pulls up more information tabs on his screen. Let’s see, Cursed Sleep is caused by the combination of Karmic Debt and Abyssal Taint, the Karmic Debt status effect is obtained from prolonged exposure to the Yaksha Xiao without any blessings or protections to counter its effects…what about the Abyssal Taint?
He clicks into that and –
“Error! Information is currently locked. Please complete the opened side-quest: Traces of Tartaglia first.”
Urgh!
He spends hours trying to get to the bottom of the mystery behind the locked information but just like his experience with the Foul Legacy Transformation, information on Abyssal Taint remains firmly out of his grasp. He’s left to watch helplessly as the status effects take a stronger and stronger hold on the user, forced to sit there and watch User 02 sleep yet another day away while there is nothing he can do because of these stupid,
stupid
non-interference protocols in place.
Just as he’s about to do something drastic, like break the rules, Character Xiao appears. The Yaksha takes one look at User 02 and dispels the Abyssal Taint on him, releasing him from his Cursed Sleep, and just like that, the status effects that have lit up the Status Effects page like a bonfire dissipate like smoke rising through the air. The Abyssal Taint effect is still active, but it’s a lot less aggressively lit up as before, which AR is taking as a massive win. He feels so relieved that he can use a nice cool shot of celebratory fire-water just about now –
AR blinks. Fire-water?
Why would he want a celebratory shot of fire-water? How does he even know what that is, let alone that he wants a shot of it?
His thoughts are interrupted by User 02 waking up and getting berated by Xiao.
System? Is what Xiao saying true?
User 02 asks, and AR has never felt so relieved to hear his voice.
Welcome back, User!
And AR actually means it.
User has suffered from Cursed Sleep resulting from User’s emotional traumas interacting with the dual effects of Abyssal Taint and Karmic Debt. User should take better care of his health in the future to prevent such events from reoccurring.
AR pulls up the Status Effect page for User 02 per his request.
His good mood promptly sours when User 02 has the audacity to snap at him.
System, what the hell! Why didn’t you tell me about these status effects?
Little punk. To think that AR had been worried for his well-being to the point of considering breaking protocol to wake him up!
System has warned User to be diligent in checking his Status Effect page to ensure optimal health,
he snaps back.
It is hardly System’s fault if the User does not wish to follow simple instructions.
AR can practically hear User 02 squawk in outrage.
Simple instructions? Listen here, you little shi–
Their fight is cut short by the Yaksha, who is still in the room, and it allows AR to simmer down.
He blinks as realization hits. This is – this whole situation from User 02 falling into his cursed sleep to now with the bickering, this is the first time since AR has felt deeply about anything from panic to despair to anger. Normally, everything feels…calm. Almost muted. Sure, he may feel a spark of frustration or displeasure here and there, but not the violent storm of emotions he had just experienced.
Huh. How peculiar.
System, help! What do I say?
AR shakes his head. He reviews the transcripts of the conversation that has transpired between User 02 and Character Xiao.
As much as the System would like to help, the System cannot directly interfere with the permitted interactions User has with the world.
Wait, what about the Silver Tongue Ability?
AR pulls up the shop tab.
And then, because he’s not completely over his anger, he says,
System has that for sale in its shop. It is a one-time use Ability and will cost the User 450 SP. Does the User wish to purchase Silver Tongue Ability?
The way User 02 balks at the price fills his chest with sweet, sweet vindication.
System, can’t you give me a discount? C’mon, have some pity for your favourite customer!
System is unable to provide a discount at this time. User is encouraged to continue to work hard!
System! Why do you hate me?!
AR snorts. “That’s for calling me a little shit, you little punk,” he mutters too quietly for the mic to pick up.
That night, he stares at the question “What did I learn?” in the questionnaire for a solid ten minutes. He thinks back on his past couple of days, on the frantic search for information as User 02 lays there in bed, and on the rising panic he feels at not being able to do anything.
Finally, he settles on the following: “The feeling of helplessness is a terrible one. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
He submits the questionnaire.
Extra II: Xiao
Rex Lapis is dead.
Xiao feels the wind leave his lungs in a rush as if a great hammer had smashed into his chest.
Rex Lapis is dead. And, according to the strange Traveller in front of him, Rex Lapis had been murdered during the Rite of Descension, or so the Qixing claims.
Impossible.
“Rex Lapis, how could this be. I…can’t imagine it. Though times have changed, I’ve never imagined a Liyue without him.”
It feels like yesterday when Rex Lapis had summoned them all to show the One he has chosen, his very own mate after a long life of bloody battles and, following that, steady governance. Rex Lapis had been radiant in his joy, and seeing him like that had given the Adepti hope for a brighter, warmer future despite their ongoing duties and their dark pasts that have kept them isolated for so long.
But Rex Lapis is gone now.
And Xiao’s task to protect Liyue remains. He suspects a lot of his Adepti brethren will feel the same. It is, after all, the last thing they can do to honour their god.
“The ruling Qixing…Just what role have they played in this?” he mutters. He supposes he will soon find the answer for himself and judge whether the Qixing are capable of protecting Rex Lapis’ beloved Liyue Harbour.
Then, he will decide whether the current generation of Qixing are found wanting to the point where the duty to protect Liyue Harbour should fall back on the Adepti.
“I will seek Moon Carver, Mountain Shaper, and Cloud Retainer. It is time that they too make their decisions.”
“Why though?” the Traveller asks. “With Rex Lapis’ passing, you’re free from your contract to protect this nation.”
The question is asked with genuine curiosity rather than malice, so Xiao answers: “I will not run from my responsibilities, not after Rex Lapis has done so much for me.”
With a quick bid of farewell to the Traveller, he leaves Wangshu Inn in a swirl of dark smoke. He traverses across Liyue, riding across the familiar network of wind currents like an eagle on soaring wings. His brethren are easy to find; they are clustered around Mount Aozang around the seats of Rex Lapis, Guizhong, and Cloud Retainer. The sight of it – and the knowledge that two of those three seats would never be filled – brings a strong pang of hurt to Xiao’s heart.
“Xiao, brother, one is glad to see you,” Moon Carver greets him once he’s landed. He’s always been the kindest of them all. The news of Rex Lapis’s death must be cutting him deeper than the rest. “One trusts that you have received the news.”
Xiao nods. “Indeed. A foreigner has dropped by Wangshu Inn to deliver the news. Her essence is unlike anything I have ever sensed. A Traveller from beyond our world, perhaps.” He shakes his head. Now is not the time to muse about such trivial things. “She brings with her the Sigil of Permission.”
“We too have been visited by such a person,” Moon Carver says with Cloud Retainer and Mountain Shaper nodding beside him. “We have gathered the Adepti across Jueyun Karst and Huaguang Stone Forest for a meeting to discuss our next steps. They should be arriving shortly.”
They do in swift wings and hooves. The once tranquil lake and mountain top that Cloud Retainer calls home is soon filled to the brim with curious Adepti. It hasn’t been long since they saw each other so to have yet another meeting so soon is most abnormal.
“Brothers, sisters,” Moon Carver starts once everybody has settled. “One has some most calamitous news about our Lord Lapis to share…”
Moon Carver’s announcement about Rex Lapis’ death is received as predicted – widespread shock and outrage. That shock and outrage only grow when Moon Carver proceeds to tell the Adepti that the Qixing believe Lord Lapis has been murdered during the Rite of Descension by a member of the audience.
“Preposterous!” an Adeptus calls out. “How weak do they make our Lord out to be to even think that he could be struck down by mortals during the Rite? What sort of ridiculous lies are they spreading to undermine our Lord? Is this an attempt to secure power for themselves – by putting our Lord down so that they can make themselves out to shine brighter than even the Great Rex Lapis?”
“Parasites!”
“Have they no honour?”
“They have no interest in solving his murder, do they?”
“We must not jump to conclusions,” Cloud Retainer calls out. “Rather, we will take the opportunity to conduct our own investigations into the matter. Because if Lord Lapis had truly been struck down, and during his prime as well, then one fears there is a greater danger lurking in Liyue.”
That calms all the Adepti.
“A dark god,” Mountain Shaper gives voice to everybody’s fear. “One that may have escaped their confines or may have made their way back to Liyue undetected.”
The thought of having to potentially wage another war is a heavy one, especially now that they no longer have their great Lord to lead them to victory. Xiao can spot the uncertainty and fear amongst the crowd, especially among the young ones who have grown up not knowing the horrors of the Archon War.
Which is why it is important to make the following clear: “If there is to be another war that arrives at the shores of Liyue, I will be fighting at the front line to protect this great nation that our Lord has left for us,” Xiao announces. “I will not watch Lord Lapis’ legacy be tarnished or erased.”
“Nor I,” Moon Carver says, stomping his hooves. “I shall not turn away from my duties to protect this land. For Lord Lapis!”
The Adepti around them echo the cry and the tight knot in Xiao’s chest loosens a little. The Adepti are not turning away from their guardianship, contract or not.
Good. Xiao will not be fighting alone and for that, he feels relieved.
The meeting stretches on for hours on how to best investigate the matter. They had to talk Cloud Retainer out of razing Liyue Harbour to the ground to flush out the threat while pointing out that they have no idea whether the threat is even
in
Liyue Harbour. Ultimately, they settle for the diplomatic approach of setting up a formal meeting with the Qixing.
“One will notify Ganyu of our plans,” Cloud Retainer says. “It is a shame that the child cannot attend the meeting today, but it is to be expected. She must have her hands full with the Qixing.”
“Her role is more vital than ever,” Mountain Shaper muses. “She is our eyes in the city and on the Qixing. No doubt her assessment of the current generation of the Qixing will help determine whether we will need to step into the roles of human governance once more.”
“One step at a time, brother,” says Moon Carver. “First, we must find out what we can about Rex Lapis’ death as well as this lurking threat. Once that is dealt with, we shall make our judgment on the Qixing.”
They decide to send Moon Carver and Mountain Shaper as delegates to speak to the Qixing. Cloud Retainer will be on standby in case she is needed for consultation. As for Xiao…
“I will be coming as well though I shall keep my presence hidden.” He has no intention to participate in the meeting, after all. “After the meeting, I will need to pay someone a visit.”
Moon Carver tilts his head in question. “Visit someone? Who could possibly warrant a visit from…” His eyes go wide. “The bride! We have forgotten about Lord Lapis’ bride! He had tasked us to keep him safe! Those were his last orders for us!”
“That is indeed who I will be visiting, do not fret,” Xiao answers over the sound of increasing worried murmurs. “I have met Lord Lapis’s…bride before so my presence would unlikely to alarm him.”
“You plan to reveal your presence to him.”
“Indeed. As Lord Lapis’ bride, he deserves to receive the news directly from one of the Adepti.”
“You like this mortal,” and Moon Carver sounds surprised by his own words. “One supposes that it makes sense given that Lord Lapis had chosen him. The bride must be someone special despite being a diplomat from a foreign land.”
Xiao snorts. “The bride is not just a diplomat from Snezhnaya, he is a high-ranking lieutenant serving the Cryo Archon.” At the renewed murmurs of alarm, he shakes his head and sighs. “I know. I too do not understand why Lord Lapis had chosen him and…I suppose we will never know now. In any event, for as long as his bride is in Liyue, I shall watch over him and keep him safe from danger, especially if there truly is a dark god lying in wait.”
The meeting adjourns and the Adepti set off to Liyue Harbour to meet with the Qixing. To say that the encounter is harmonious is wishful thinking at best. Even from the corner where Xiao is lurking hidden in the shadows, it is all too evident that underneath the Qixing’s masks of pleasantry, they are less than pleased to see the Adepti at their doorsteps, especially when it is clear that they have made little to no progress on solving the mystery behind Rex Lapis’ untimely death.
“Investigations are still underway to catch the culprit,” Lady Ningguang says with a bow. “For now, we are investigating all those who were in attendance during the Rite.”
“With all due respect, Lady Ningguang, the idea that a mortal could come close to possessing the power to kill Lord Lapis is inconceivable,” Moon Carver says.
Lady Ningguang nods. “Yes, that is true, Honourable Adeptus, if the mortal is acting on their own. There is a chance that they are an accessory to the murder or are acting on someone’s bidding. Perhaps the mortal had been possessed, or perhaps the real enemy has disguised themselves as a mortal. There are a lot of unexplored possibilities at the moment, but we hope to uncover more leads by investigating further in order to discover the true threat hidden in Liyue.”
Hm. Those possibilities are not ones the Adepti have initially perceived. It also appears that the Qixing are aware that a bigger threat to the nation is out there. Xiao has to concede that there is value to pursue that line of investigation in light of Lady Ningguang’s logic and clarification.
His Adepti brethren agree. “We shall leave you to continue your investigation while we will search for traces of any dark gods tainting the land. Should we find any leads, we will reconvene for another meeting.”
“Of course, Honourable Adepti. We look forward to receiving your findings. Likewise, we will share what we have discovered once we have made more progress.”
“One last matter. Where have you kept Lord Lapis’s exuvia?”
“The Golden House. We have placed our guards around it. It is the most secured location under Qixing’s control in Liyue. We will give the exuvia the proper burial that Rex Lapis deserves once we had the chance to investigate the murders more thoroughly.”
“The exuvia should be kept with us at Jueyan Karst,” Mountain Shaper grumbles. “It should not be hidden away in the outskirts of the city.”
Lady Ningguang bows once more, this time, with more deference. “I ask the honourable Adepti for your understanding. It is crucial that the exuvia be temporarily stored at a location that is still more accessible in the event that the murderer seeks it out.”
Mountain Shaper rears back and flaps his mighty wings in outrage. “You wish to use our illuminated Lord Lapis’ vessel as a lure?! What disrespect is this, mortal?!”
To her credit, Lady Ningguang does not cower. “I do not mean any disrespect,” she says, “I am merely seeking the truth behind the murder. It is the least I can do in honour of Rex Lapis and in order to protect Liyue.”
“It is fine, Mountain Shaper,” Moon Carver soothes. “This only serves as an incentive for us to find the killer quickly. The sooner we unearth this threat, the sooner our lord can be granted the proper burial with all the pomp and ceremony of an Archon. In the meantime, however,” he rears to his full height and tosses his head back, the light from his antlers shining a halo of gold around him. “I expect the Qixing to keep our Lord Lapis’s body safe and to treat it with the reverence it deserves.”
“Of course.”
Satisfied that the meeting is drawing to a close, Xiao leaves.
He follows the swirling air current rising up above the city until he’s high up in the sky. He scans the landscape, his keen eyesight picking up the individual pinpricks of gold lights lining the streets and glowing through the windows as well as the faces of the few individuals still out and about – the Millelith patrolling the alleys, the merchants closing up shops, the tourists making their way home – hmm. Where is that little nuisance?
An odd sensation settles over him and he finds his attention shattered. It feels like…a tug at his navel and it is a familiar one of…prayer? Yes, the sensation is growing stronger. It is a prayer that is directed towards the deities of Liyue in general, one that gives thanks and seeks protection against…
Ah. Protection against the harmful effects of the Abyss. It appears that Xiao has found who is looking for.
He follows the prayer to guide his flight. Hmm, now that he is focused on it, he can make out the undercurrent of bright energy lacing every word and how at odd it feels to the usual prayers one would get from Liyuans. The mortals of this nation have been taught the proper decorum to address the Adepti. Every word and action are done carefully and with solemnity. The Snezhnayan, however, is very different. His prayer feels more like the rush of churning water running off the cliff. It is…bubbly and filled with excited chattering like a young babbling child, and it doesn’t…stop.
The Snezhnayan prays for protection.
Then, the Snezhnayan prays for the Traveller’s safety.
And then, the Snezhnayan prays for…cooperation among the Qixing and the Adepti, which is interesting. The mortal is apparently in tune with the brewing politics of the city, which makes sense. He is a diplomat after all.
Still, three prayers in a quick secession? Xiao can already feel a headache building.
He lands on the balcony where the Snezhnayan is distracted with the plate of fruit on the altar. He makes his presence visible before the boy can tack on
yet another
prayer –
“Hmph. All those prayers for a mere plate of fruit? Greedy.”
The boy swirls around, eyes wide and a hand on his chest. “Xiao? Why are you here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, but you almost gave me a heart attack!”
Xiao barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. “It is nothing short of a miracle that you have managed to live as long as you have, being constantly unguarded the way you are.”
He ignores the other’s stare to inspect the altar. Hm. Decent. The fruits are of exceptional quality as with the porcelain plate on which it is served even though with how greedy the foreigner is, he could use another plate or two.
He tells him as much. “Adequate. But more fruit next time if you will be tacking on five prayers.”
“It wasn’t
five
– no, you know what? That’s not important. You haven’t answered my question.”
“I have heard of some unbelievable news and have opted to investigate to determine whether or not they are true.”
“If you mean Rex Lapis’ death, then yeah, that’s the story that’s being spread around town. Someone from the Qixing came to confirm and to ask me a few questions about it too.”
The boy’s expression softens.
“Hey, I’m really, really sorry for your loss. I, uh, may not know your god personally but from all the stories I’ve heard about him, he seemed like a really cool dude. It’s clear even to a foreigner like me that everybody loved him.”
Wait.
“You do not know him personally?”
But Lord Lapis chose him as his bride! How can he not know Lord Lapis?
“No?” the diplomat answers with obvious confusion. “I mean, between you and me, I prayed to him a lot because of the, uh...” His voice trails off and makes a gesture to his body. “I also saw him at the Rite a year ago. He seemed to have liked me, though.”
“You have no further interactions beyond those instances?”
The confusion on the other’s face grows. “Should I have? Because you make it sound like I’m missing something…”
Realization dawns on the Yaksha. Did Rex Lapis ever tell this boy of, well,
anything
? How did Lord Lapis even become attracted to this foreigner if all their interactions are, according to him, strictly prayers –
No. That can’t be it. Xiao has seen the way Lord Lapis had acted around the boy. He had seen the - Xiao bites back a wince - the
tail wag
and the fawning. Lord Lapis is not one to act like that without some deeper connection.
…Perhaps there have been deeper connections, but ones done in subterfuge. The Snezhnayan is a high-ranking lieutenant who had sworn his loyalty to another Archon, after all. It wouldn’t have been appropriate for Lord Lapis to appear as he is, the Geo Archon of Liyue, to…court the young man without risking the ire of the Tsaritsa.
Lord Lapis would have approached this situation carefully. Strategically. He would have donned on one of his many disguises to woo the boy. Yes, that is probably what happened. And Lord Lapis would have waited for the right moment to reveal his true self.
It brings no joy to Xiao to realize that this right moment would never come to pass, that this mortal would never know how he had become the apple of Lord Lapis’s eye.
“Forget it,” Xiao mutters, his heart heavy, “it is unimportant now.” Really. Just what was his lord thinking?
The boy does not pursue his line of questioning. “So, how did your investigation go? The Qixing is claiming that Rex Lapis has been murdered but, um, I find that hard to believe, to be honest.”
“It is as you say. According to the Qixing, Rex Lapis has been murdered during the Rite of Descension. They suspected a foreign mortal had committed the deed.” Or, at least, was manipulated by a dark god. “You said the Qixing paid you a visit. Why? Were you at the Rite?”
“No, I didn’t go this year, I was at home. As for why they paid me a visit, I’m assuming it’s because they wanted to keep tabs on all the foreigners in town, which is ridiculous, by the way. How can a mortal kill an Archon? Couldn’t Rex Lapis fling giant stone spears the size of mountains at his enemies? What person can go up against that? Not even a Vision-holder has that much power!”
At least this mortal has a healthy respect for Lord Lapis’ power.
“Hm, I agree.”
“Wait, you do?”
Xiao nods. “Rex Lapis had many names, one of which being the Warrior God. He had lived through thousands of years embroiled in war and bloodshed. An Archon such as him would not have been so easily killed, let alone by a mortal during the Rite of Descension.”
If the mortal had been acting on their own.
The Snezhnayan seems to pick up on Xiao’s unspoken words, because he asks, “What are you saying, then?”
“I am saying that Liyue may be in far more danger than we thought if something is capable of killing the Geo Archon while remaining undetected. That is why I am here today; I am here to deliver a warning – be careful.”
A funny look crosses the boy’s feature but it is gone before Xiao can parse out what it means. Instead, the boy asks, “How though? You just said that something far more dangerous is lurking around. Whatever it is also managed to kill Rex Lapis. How do I guard against that? What am I even guarding against?”
“Your odds of survival will improve if you learn to be far more vigilant.”
At the boy’s souring expression, Xiao scoffs and adds, “But as for what you are guarding against, that’s what the other Adepti and I are trying to find out. For now, our speculation is some sort of evil god that has managed to strike Rex Lapis from the shadows. To guard against that…”
He eyes the altar and its paltry offering. “You should offer more fruit.”
Provide more offerings so that the Adepti can provide greater protection. Favours from the gods are, after all, transactional, just like how anything is done under Celestia’s rule. Celestia hardly does anything for free and neither do its divine subjects.
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll offer the most expensive fruit money can buy,” the diplomat promises and Xiao relaxes. Good. “How are you doing though? Are you okay?”
A funny question. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean with Rex Lapis’ passing. How are you holding up? He was your friend, right?”
Oh. The boy is…worried. For him. A subject of another Archon.
Perhaps this is why Lord Lapis had been attracted to this one. For all of his flaws, including his loyalty to another Archon, his frequent lapse in judgment, and his propensity for combat, his heart is very much on his sleeves.
“I was his subject, not his friend,” Xiao corrects. “He had been…a fair ruler, and he had treated me and the other Adepti with as much kindness as one from his station could afford. He had sought to protect us all, not just the mortals, but those who had chosen to follow him.”
The boy looks more miserable. Hm. A
kind
heart on his sleeves.
It must be that kindness that has attracted Lord Lapis to him after all.
“I’m really sorry, Xiao. This must be incredibly hard for you and the others. I have no words.”
“Your sentiment is unneeded. Death is an inevitability even for the Adepti. At the end of the day, as mighty and powerful as Rex Lapis was, he was still an Adeptus and was susceptible to death. It is something that myself and the others have accepted a long time ago. The most we can do now is to uncover the truth behind his passing and to carry on his legacy.”
At least now, after carrying out his duty for so long, his Lord Lapis finally has the chance to rest.
“Hey, can you give me one quick second? I’ll be right back.”
Xiao waits as the boy dips into the house. A few minutes later, he scrambles out into the balcony holding a bottle and two cups.
“Osmanthus wine,” Xiao notes. The finest quality as well. “It was his favourite.”
The other nods. “I figured we could toast to his memory.” He opens the bottle and pours out two cups. “It’s a chance to say goodbye.”
Xiao takes the cup handed to him and dips his head in quick thanks.
“To Rex Lapis,” the diplomat says, lifting his cup to the sky, “although you have passed on, may your teachings and memories live on.”
They drink to the toast. The cups get refilled, and Xiao stares into his. He stares at the way the moon is reflecting onto its calm surface as he tries to capture into words all he wishes to express to his Lord, words that he hopes would allow his Lord to go in peace.
He glances over to the boy – no, to his Lord’s chosen.
In another life, one that’s happier than this, Xiao would have loved to have seen Lord Lapis and his bride dressed in celebratory red for their wedding.
Hm. He thinks he knows what he wants to say.
“To Rex Lapis,” he murmurs and lifts the cup to the moon. “Rest easy, my Lord, we will continue to protect those you held dearest in your heart.”
Xiao will continue to protect his bride for as long as his strength holds. For as long as it’s possible so that Lord Lapis can go to the afterlife untethered to the living word.
Lord Lapis can rest. His job is finally done.
Lord Lapis’s bride gives him a gentle smile. “To Rex Lapis,” he echoes and downs his cup.
Extra III: Ekaterina
It’s not lost on Ekaterina that something big is silently brewing in Liyue. Between La Signora’s plotting to spy on the Vanguard’s mission, the increasing…caginess on Master Childe’s account, the death of Rex Lapis, and now, the growing ire in La Signora, Ekaterina and her brethren are missing critical pieces of a puzzle that will finally demystify the game that has been afoot. But until they know what those missing pieces are, all they can do is keep their head down and play their roles as good little pawns.
It doesn’t mean that they can’t gossip amongst themselves about everything that is happening, though.
“Is it just me or is La Signora a bit…off?” Felix asks, after one of their dreaded meetings with La Signora. As per custom, they have gathered in Ekaterina’s apartment afterwards, squeezing themselves around the small kitchen table partly to lick their wounds and partly to get shit-faced. “I mean, she’s always been off, but she seems
more
off.”
“She’s not happy that she has nothing on Master Childe,” Vlad chimes in. He also hands a tin of cookies over, one of the many tins Master Childe had made for his work colleagues at the bank. “She keeps expecting him to slip up and act out in rage but there’s been nothing. I bet she had some sort of a scheme in place to get him into trouble but since he’s been nothing but professional, that plan has fallen apart.”
“I don’t like this,” Nadia muses from across the table. “If she’s desperate, her plans will be harder to predict, and…messier. I don’t want to know what sort of collateral damage her new plan would have. I mean, La Signora is starting to mobilize already. I’m sure you’ve all seen a few new faces around here.”
Ekaterina has. In the meeting they’ve just had with La Signora, she spotted at least five new members within La Signora’s circle that weren’t there before. It’s worrisome how she’s slowly gathering her own forces for reasons still unknown.
“Do we even know what’s really going on?” Vlad asks. “I mean, at the very first meeting we had with La Signora when she told us that the Tsaritsa had commanded her to oversee the Vanguard’s mission. What the heck even is the Vanguard’s mission?”
That question gives them all a pause.
Nadia fishes a cookie from the tin and pops it in her mouth. “What has Master Childe been doing this entire time?”
“Training?” Ekaterina suggests. “Doing his job at the bank? Actually being a diplomat? Dating Mister Zhongli? Possibly getting married to him if the rumours are true?”
Vlad groans. “I wish they’d get married already and spare us all from the constant sight of them being all,” he makes a vague hand gesture, “soft and
domestic
. There are only so many conversations a man can withstand to overhear about homecooked meals before he loses it.”
“I think they’re sweet!” At the rounds of boos, Nadia crosses her arms over her chest and juts her chin out in defiance. “What? They are! It’s sweet how Mister Zhongli shows up with lunch as well as gives all those reminders to Master Childe to drink less coffee. And have you seen the way they look at each other? All I’m saying is that every one of us wants a husband who treats them the way Mister Zhongli treats Master Childe, don’t lie.”
“Not that I am disagreeing with you,” because Ekaterina isn’t. Nadia’s right. “But I think we’re getting a little side-tracked here. If we can just focus, we’re talking about what else Master Childe has been doing aside from having a solid relationship with his significant other.”
“Didn’t he write letters to Morepesok?” Vlad adds. “He’s getting replies from there. He’s also been talking a lot with Il Dottore to make those talisman duplicates.”
Felix perks up. “Oh, shit, do you think those talisman duplicates have something to do with whatever Master Childe’s mission is? I mean, it makes sense if they are. Remember how La Signora was all like, ‘Clever, clever’ when we told her about his communication with Il Dottore? That stuck out to me since it’s the first time I’ve heard her say something that’s remotely complimentary towards Master Childe.”
Ekaterina nods. “I think it’s a part of it, for sure.”
“So Master Childe is plotting something. La Signora probably knows what his end goal is and fully expects him to fuck things up, but apparently, he hasn’t and she’s mad because of that.” Vlad shakes his head. “Do you think whatever Master Childe is planning had something to do with Rex Lapis’ mysterious death?”
“No, because why would he help Mondstadt’s Honourary Knight clear her name as the murderer?” Nadia points out. “Even if she was being used to test those talismans. Surely, it would have been easier to let her take the fall and send someone else to get those talismans tested if Master Childe is the real culprit.”
“Great,” Vlad grumbles. “All we know so far is that Master Childe is plotting something under the commands of the Tsaritsa, and that he’s making a lot of weapons as part of this plan. His plan probably involves chaos and destruction. The Tsaritsa wouldn’t have sent the Vanguard out for any other purpose.”
Ekaterina lets those ominous words hang over them. Chaos and destruction to reign down upon Liyue when their Archon had been struck down. The timing seems uncanny.
But more than that, the idea of Master Childe doing any sort of widescale destruction on a nation that he clearly enjoys living is…a heartbreaking and unfathomable one.
“I hope you’re wrong, Vlad,” Felix says as he reaches for the fire-water. “I don’t want to know what this means to us poor peons if anything like this happens. I’m not sure if you’re aware but
we
are all collateral damage here.”
Oh, they know.
Their sombre mood does not improve with how tense the streets of Liyue are. Ever since Rex Lapis’s murder, the Qixing has increased their scrutiny on all foreign visitors -- even those from Mondstadt, their long-time ally. The bank has not escaped the all-gazing eye of the Qixing but aside from posting a few more Millelith outside of the Bank, the Qixing hasn’t intruded on their business. Ekaterina suspects that she has Master Childe to thank on that front from his supposed non-presence at the Rite of Descension, though how nobody has spotted him in his ridiculous outfit remains a mystery.
Their good luck seems to hold out up until a messenger rushes into the bank and hands Ekaterina a note.
Her eyes quickly skim over the content and she curses.
A warning from Felix. Apparently, there is a new platoon of Fatui soldiers at the docks, freshly arrived to Snezhnaya. Worse still, they stick out like a sore thumb. Felix is currently running interference but there’s only so much he can do before they attract the attention of the Millelith.
They’ll need Master Childe for this.
She’s just about to go find him when he strolls into the bank with a happy smile on his face. Great, she’s about to ruin his good mood with this.
“Master Childe, I’m glad you’re here. Felix just sent a message to us: a new platoon of Fatui was spotted at the docks!”
Master Childe’s smile drops. Predictably.
“Platoon? I didn’t order for more men. Did they say why they’re here?”
She thinks back on the note Felix had sent her. “They haven’t. They said that they are here on a classified mission. Given the tension in the city, the Qixing are going to be knocking on our doors asking about them if we don’t sort this out.”
Master Childe shares her concerns. “Alright, take me to them. Let’s see how tight-lipped they are in the presence of a Harbinger.”
They head towards the wharf together.
Felix was right; the new Snezhnayan troops do not blend in with their surroundings with the way they’ve clustered by the large metal ship and the menacing aura they’re emitting. Felix is still standing there, probably in front of the troops’ leader, trying to get someone to talk but it’s clear he’s getting nowhere.
“Look, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, but the mission is classified,” the leader says. “And I doubt you have the clearance to know so why don’t you run off and let us do our job, little agent?”
From the corner of her eyes, she sees Master Childe go tense. Looks like they’re in for a showdown.
And she is not disappointed.
“He may not have the clearance to know but I certainly do!”
The snide authoritative tone that rings out of Master Childe makes all the Fatui flinch. The new troops, in particular, take one look at Master Childe before their eyes go wide with fear and they scramble to get into formation. Unsurprising. Everybody knows about the Vanguard’s bloody and unhinged reputation, with a lot of the more gruesome horror stories of his violent tendencies being spread within the barracks as a cross between urban legends and cautionary tales. To come face-to-face with the Vanguard is probably ranked up there among most Fatui members’ worst nightmare, like seeing the monster hiding under your bed up close and personal.
The smugness that the leader once possessed seems to have fled him entirely. He’s standing there, his face pale, shaking, and staring at the Vanguard like he’s spotted the boogeyman. Master Childe’s eyes flicker to his uniform, at the badge pinned to his chest, and barks out: “You! Captain. Speak. Do it quickly before you attract unwanted attention.”
The poor Captain practically yelps. “L – Lord Tartaglia! I – I did not know that you were here!”
Ekaterina shoots Felix an amused look, one that has Felix biting his lips to keep from smirking in response. To think that once upon a time, they had similarly responded to Master Childe’s presence with fear. It’s hard to go back to that after seeing the numerous times Master Childe makes doe eyes at Mister Zhongli or eating the numerous tins of cookies the young man has baked for his fellow employees at the bank.
“Quickly,” Master Childe presses. “And while you lot are here, address me as Master Childe and not as a Harbinger. Your sudden appearance has caused enough trouble for me as is. I will not have you disrupting my mission further.”
That catches Ekaterina and Felix’s attention. Oh, is Master Childe going to let slip what mission he’s doing, specifically?
They are met with disappointment because he never elaborates. But his words do have the effect of making the Captain look like he’s about to piss his own pants.
“Y – yes, Lor – Master Childe. We are sent here to, um, provide support in various missions.”
“Missions in Liyue? For whom?”
“For multiple Harbingers, sir. Um, Lord Dottore, Lord Pantalone, and…uh…Lady Signora.”
Ekaterina shoots Felix another look, this time, one filled with dread. Not good. Is La Signora mobilizing even more?
Master Childe sneers. “Annoying. Listen up, you lot. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but rumour has it that Rex Lapis has been assassinated so the entire nation is tense, let alone Liyue Harbour. So far, the Qixing has largely left us alone and deemed us as a non-threat, something that I have worked very hard to achieve.”
He stalks up to the trembling Captain and glares the man down. He says the next words slowly, carefully: “If any of you are stupid enough to draw suspicion on me and my men at the Northland Bank, I will not hesitate to hunt you down one by one and send you back to your loved ones in pieces. If you know what’s good for you, you will keep your head down. Have I made myself clear?”
The troops scramble to salute with shaking limbs. “Y – yes – yes, sir!”
Master Childe seems pleased by the response. “Good,” he says with his usual bright voice and sunny smile. “I’m glad we can come to an understanding. One last thing though. The next time I see any of you disrespecting one of my men…”
Master Childe drags a slow finger across his throat, the sunny smile on his face makes the image all the more menacing.
“Now scram.”
The troops scram.
Ekaterina raises a brow at Felix. Felix, likewise, looks a bit shell-shocked, not at the casual threat of violence – that’s rather tame in the grand scheme of things – but more the fact that Master Childe had referred to Felix and Ekaterina as
his men
. As in, his people whom he clearly is more than happy to threaten other people for. Since when does a Harbinger do that for anybody, let alone lowly subordinates?
Since when has La Signora done that for them? She’d sooner throw them all under the proverbial moving cart than to come to their defence.
For the umpteenth time since arriving to Liyue, Ekaterina finds herself grimacing at the familiar guilt slamming into her chest. Though she tried to keep as many damning details as she can about Master Childe away from La Signora, the truth of the matter is that she is
still
acting as her spy and her job is to provide constant updates about Master Childe for La Signora to exploit. Her actions do not sit right with her at all even if she recognizes how impossible it is for her to ignore La Signora’s command.
Still, just because she’s forced into her spy role does not mean that she can’t also continue her personal mission to watch Master Childe’s back for hidden daggers, and it’s with this renewed resolve that she says after Master Childe orders Felix to follow after the troops:
“Master Childe, be careful. Something’s not right.”
Master Childe gives her a weak smile and a shrug, the murderous aura from before having disappeared entirely.
“I know. But there’s not much I can do except keep tabs on what’s going on.”
His smile drops and he turns to watch the waves crashing against the wooden docks.
“We’re going to have to keep a low profile with all the new activities that are happening outside of our control. But if anything happens to me or if there’s any reason you and the others need to lay low and escape Liyue, I have a box in my office. Behind the third painting, there’s a safe. 3112.”
“Master Childe? Why would anyone need –“
Why would they need to lay low and escape? Wait.
Panic floods Ekaterina’s veins. Is Master Childe insinuating that he knows that she’s a spy?
…But how does that make any sense?
Because if he knows about that, then why would he be offering his help for them to lay low and escape?
Could it be that this has to do with Master Childe’s mission?
Master Childe gives her an apologetic look and confirms her suspicion. “Sorry, Ekaterina, that’s unfortunately classified. You’ll know soon enough, though.”
“Master Childe is most definitely planning something big,” she relays to her spy colleagues that evening as they have gathered in Felix’s apartment for dinner. “It’s big enough that he’s prepared something for us in case we need to escape Liyue and keep ourselves hidden.”
“You have to warn us when you’re about to drop some truly terrifying news,” Nadia says with a grimace, resuming her effort to fill her bowl with rice and stir fry, courtesy of Wanmin Restaurant. “I see him running around with Mondstadt’s Knight lately. 1000 mora says all of this is related to his mission.”
“As if anyone would take that losing bet,” Vlad answers. He turns to Ekaterina. “Weren’t you and Felix given special missions from Master Childe?”
“He asked me to keep an eye out on locations with large gatherings of Millelith soldiers. He’s trying to find where the Qixing has stashed Rex Lapis’ body. He says he’s doing it to fulfill his promise to help the Honorary Knight. I know, I don’t buy it either. Clearly, it’s part of his mission.”
“Master Childe asked me to keep an eye out on the new troops,” Felix volunteers. “They’ve been stationed around Liyue Harbour in a circle. To the surprise of nobody, most of them are La Signora’s men.”
Vlad sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is ominous. She’s got her people encircling the city as if she’s waiting to give them the order to attack Liyue Harbour. 2000 mora says it’s got to do with Master Childe. Maybe she’s waiting to give her command the moment it looks like he’s going to screw up?”
“Yet another losing bet that none of us will take.” Ekaterina gives the group a hard look. “What do we tell Master Childe about La Signora?”
“When I gave him my report about the troops’ location, he didn’t look alarmed,” Felix muses. “I think Master Childe is well aware that something is happening. He
is
a Harbinger, after all. He couldn’t have climbed up the ranks without being aware of all the politicking that’s happening in the background, especially amongst the Harbingers.”
“I don’t know, ever since his accident, Master Childe has been…softer. Oh, you know what I mean,” Ekaterina says at her colleagues’ stares. “I don’t mean physically. We all know he trains like crazy and that he’s in peak physical condition. I have no doubt that on the battlefield, the Vanguard can take most of the Harbingers on except maybe Il Capitano, but that man is thrice his size. What I mean is that Master Childe has gotten soft in terms of his personality.”
Felix nods. “I know what you mean. He was terrifying in front of the troops but he was merciful. Before his accident, he would have killed them for threatening his plans.”
They all cringe at the memory of old Tartaglia. None of them had ever worked under his command short of the handful of days he had first arrived in Liyue before his accident. But those couple of days were
very
demonstrative of what life would have been like under his leadership.
In short, a living nightmare.
“Exactly. Master Childe is different now and his mercy is putting him in danger.”
“What are you suggesting we do then?” Nadia asks. “Are you suggesting that we tell him the full extent of La Signora’s meddling, including how we’ve been acting as her spy this entire time? I don’t know about you but I don’t exactly relish dying.”
“You think La Signora is going to keep us alive after she’s done with Master Childe with the way her plan had derailed the way it did?” Ekaterina counters. “You’ve seen what she’s like in the meetings. She’s getting more and more frustrated and she’s brought her own people here. She’s losing faith and trust in our ability to carry out our tasks.”
Glum silence descends between them, thick and oppressive. Ekaterina sighs.
“I know we weren’t sure how to navigate this situation and had opted to play it safe by doing what La Signora commanded of us, but something big is happening and I don’t think we have the luxury to keep our heads down and out of trouble anymore. I think we’re going to have to pick a side – La Signora or Master Childe.”
It’s clear from everybody’s resigned expression that they knew this day was coming.
It’s also clear just which side everybody is choosing.
“Well, fuck,” Vlad mutters. “How do we go about begging Master Childe for forgiveness?”
They opted to get their affairs sorted out first before biting the bullet. Ekaterina takes the morning to update her will and draft letters to her family to remind them of the secret funds she has squirreled away for them in case of her untimely demise. She’s just about finish her letter to her brother when she finds her concentration shattered at the murmurs of concerns around her.
Ones that are getting louder, accompanied by the sound of uneven footsteps.
She looks up and her face goes pale.
“Master Childe?!”
It’s as if all the blood has been drained from Master Childe’s face leaving him a pale husk of a human being with the exception of the twin scarlet streams trickling out of his nose and dripping from his chin to dye the front of his jacket bright red. His eyes are dazed; he seems to have trouble focusing in front of him as well as standing with how he’s leaning so heavily against the wall.
It takes a few worrying seconds before his gaze can even land on her.
“Ekaterina?” he slurs, “I – I don’t feel so good.”
Ekaterina has never moved so fast in her life. She dashes over, hoping to catch him, but she’s not quite fast enough to stop his body from crumpling to the ground.
“Master Childe!”
She curses and immediately presses her frantic hands against his head to feel for injury. Fuck, he feels too hot. Feverish. She can’t find any wounds on him though – no cuts, no bumps, no bruises. Has he been poisoned?
“Medic!” She barks out to the frozen Fatui and customers around her. “Call the doctor! Immediately!”
That gets everybody moving.
“Who was the person who saw Master Childe last?”
A trembling Fatui recruit steps forward. “I – I did, ma’am. I went and delivered a letter to Master Childe fifteen minutes ago and…I’m not sure what happened! H – he was fine then!”
“Anything else? Did he receive anything suspicious? Did you check everything for any traces of poison?”
The recruit nods. “I think he had received parcels from Lor –
the doctor
before I handed him the letter. But the delivery crew and I have checked everything over. There were no traces of poison, ma’am!” The recruit’s voice goes small. “ Is – is he going to be alright?”
Fuck if she knows.
Someone is handing her a handkerchief, which takes and immediately starts stemming the bleeding and –
fuck
. Master Childe’s eyes are opened to a sliver but they’re so vacant. His breathing is getting more and more laboured, and sweat is beading on his forehead. From her right, she hears someone shouting about getting Mister Zhongli.
That seems to perk Master Childe up for a second. “M – m – d –” he mumbles, but his strength quickly leaves him. He opens his mouth a few more times, the words stuck in his throat. And then, his eyes roll back and he goes completely limp in her hold.
Her heart drops. Oh no. Oh no, no, no –
“Where’s that doctor?” she yells, her voice going shrill. “We need that doctor now!”
“Here! Right here! Move out of the way please!”
A fleet of people descend upon Master Childe, and one of them gently pulls Ekaterina away. It takes a couple of tries; her feet seem to have gone limp, but she’s eventually dragged to a nearby seat where she’s handed a hot cup of…something. Tea? Coffee? She’s not sure what-- nor does she care. Her eyes are locked on the crowd of doctors carefully lifting Master Childe onto a stretcher.
The doors slam open and in rushes Mister Zhongli with a couple of nervous Fatui trailing behind him. His eyes are wild and he’s in his dress shirt and vest only – clearly, he’s rushed out without bothering to shrug on his jacket – and Ekaterina can see the exact moment when the man spots what he’s looking for from the way he’s gone completely still.
“Childe?”
He rushes towards the stretcher. “Childe!”
“Sir, please get away –”
Zhongli does no such thing, though he manages to stop himself from touching Childe. Barely.
“What happened,” he demands, his eyes flashing bright gold and his voice laced with a low, agitated growl. Ekaterina doesn’t know why but the room suddenly feels heavy and charged like the air would right before a thunderstorm. Her arms are getting goosebumps and she shivers from the uncomfortable sensation. Some of the Fatui members are noticeably flinching away as well, though the confused looks on their faces suggest that they have no idea what’s causing their innate response.
It says a lot about the steel in the doctor’s spine because she answers without flinching. “We don’t know, sir. We haven’t spotted any wounds or injuries on him. We’ll need to take him to the hospital. Now, please, sir, step away –”
“He’s with him,” Ekaterina interrupts. “He’s family.”
The doctor pauses. “Alright. Come with us, sir. You as well, ma’am. I understand that you were present when he collapsed? We will need as much information as we can get on what happened.”
They follow the medics outside of the bank and watch them fasten a series of ropes and ties around the stretcher before lowering it over the banister to the ground floor where another group of medical professionals is present to catch it. A sensible option rather than braving the million flights of stairs to get the stretcher all the way down. Childe looks pale and small, swaddled in the blankets the way he is, and so, very still. Some of his blood has been cleaned from his skin but there are still traces of it crusting around his nose and on his lips.
One of the medics helpfully holds a cloth over his face as some sort of shield around him to preserve his privacy but Ekaterina knows the damage has been done. This is – this is not good. Not just in terms of Master Childe’s health but with La Signora’s people crawling around Liyue, there is no doubt in Ekaterina’s mind that she will hear of this.
Assuming that it wasn’t her who had attempted to poison Master Childe.
They arrive at the hospital and are automatically given one of the larger private rooms, courtesy of Master Childe’s status as a foreign diplomat. Zhongli and Ekaterina are led to the separate waiting room by a kind nurse. They are handed more calming tea.
“What happened?” Mister Zhongli asks again, once they’re alone in the room. He seems more focused, centered, but Ekaterina is not at all fooled. She can see the simmering anger under his thin veneer of calm from the way he’s clenching the mug, the subtle crease between his brow, and the way his lips are pressed into a thin displeased line.
“We’re not sure,” Ekaterina confesses. “The agent who last saw him had delivered a letter to Master Childe. He swore that Master Childe had been perfectly fine then, but fifteen minutes later, he came stumbling out and…” She shakes her head. “He collapsed to the ground after muttering about not feeling well. I couldn’t detect any injuries on him.”
Mister Zhongli’s gaze sharpens. “Poison?”
“We check everything before delivering to Master Childe. There are no traces of poison found on the letter or on anything Master Childe received today.”
“Hm, utterly frustrating. Let us see what the doctors have to say.”
The doctors are not sure what caused his bleeding either.
“It’s not poison. We’re not seeing signs of damage to his body indicative of a poisoning,” the doctor who had spoken to Mister Zhongli at the bank says as Ekaterina and Mister Zhongli are led into the private room. The other medics give them a small bow before filing out with their charts and instruments in tow.
Master Childe is resting on the bed, tucked under layers of white blankets. He’s still much too pale but he’s fully cleaned up now and he looks like he’s breathing deeply, which brings a surge of relief to Ekaterina’s heart. He doesn’t look like he’s in pain anymore.
He also has a thick cylindrical wrap around his neck, like a great big collar tucked right under his chin.
“We suspect that this might be from a head injury,” the doctor continues. “We’ve taken the precaution to stabilize his head while casting healing magic on him. Has he suffered head trauma in the past?”
“I recall that Childe said he had a serious accident in the first couple of days in Liyue,” Mister Zhongli answers. “He had been attacked by Ruin Guards, but this happened well over a year and a half ago.”
“He likes to train as well,” Ekaterina adds. “Master Childe is rather physically active.”
The doctor nods. “It could be an old head injury that keeps getting exacerbated before it can fully heal. We will run more tests to find out and, in the meantime, we will resume scheduled healing sessions.”
She bows and turns to leave.
“Wait,” Mister Zhongli calls out. “Can I…”
His voice trails off, but the doctor apparently knows what he’s asking.
“It’s fine. You can touch him. Please avoid the head, though.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
Mister Zhongli pulls his chair closer to the bed until he’s right beside it. He takes a few quiet seconds to look at Master Childe before reaching out and lacing his fingers with the other’s in a delicate, protective hold.
“Oh, my dear boy,” he murmurs, and he sounds so, so sad. “How can I protect you? What can I do to keep you safe?”
Ekaterina leaves the room quietly. Mister Zhongli needs to have this alone time with Master Childe more than she does. Besides, she doesn’t have the heart to look Mister Zhongli in the eye and tell him the truth: there’s nothing he, or anyone, can do.
After all, injury and death are things that Harbingers accept in their line of duty.
“The Vanguard was hospitalized this afternoon,” she reports to La Signora that evening. She’s bowing before the Lady Harbinger, her gaze firmly on the ground as protocol dictates. “He collapsed at the bank. The doctors suspect that it is an old injury acting up.”
“So I have heard,” La Signora says with a scoff. “To think that he dares call himself the Vanguard when he is nothing but a weak little boy. A shame that the Tsaritsa had ever elevated that urchin to his current standing rather than keeping him to the bottom of the ladder where he ought to be.”
That snide comment earns the Harbinger a round of chuckles from her loyal followers. Ekaterina bites the inside of her cheek to keep calm. From the corner of her eyes, she sees Felix shifting in place, probably to shake off his own discomfort and anger.
“How many people witnessed that embarrassing display of weakness?”
Ekaterina hesitates. “Our men,” she admits. “A few customers but they were ushered out of the bank quickly. And,” she glances at her colleagues. Fuck, there’s no avoiding it. Too many people have seen. “And the consultant from the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour.”
“Again with the consultant,” La Signora hisses. “His constant presence is starting to get aggravating.”
Ekaterina feels her heart go cold. Oh, no. Please don’t let her focus on Mister Zhongli. Please don’t let her focus on Mister Zhongli –
“The consultant. What did he do?”
Drops of sweat are gathering on her forehead. She doesn’t dare try to wipe them away.
“He accompanied the Vanguard to the hospital to make sure he is healthy.”
For some reason, La Signora gives a mirthless chuckle at that answer. “Of course, he would. How nosy.”
The answer has Ekaterina freeze up even more. This is – this is not good. La Signora knows about Mister Zhongli’s relationship with Master Childe.
Luckily, she doesn’t press on. She merely says, “Continue to keep an eye on the situation. Dismissed.”
Ekaterina bows and quickly makes her escape with her colleagues.
“We really need to tell Master Childe now,” Felix slides up beside her to mutter in her ears when they’re far enough away from La Signora’s headquarters. “Master Childe needs to know that Mister Zhongli is in her crosshairs.”
Ekaterina nods. “When Master Childe recovers, we’ll tell him. It appears that our time spent in hiding is officially up.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Uraraka was drenched in sweat, her eyes haunted by the worst memory she had experienced in this hell-forsaken land: the day she watched Shinsou break under his Interrogator instructors. The first six years of her life in Marconam had been anything other than stellar. Then she met Shinsou the winter after she turned twelve. Five years had passed since that fateful day. Many things had changed, but the weight of despair she carried on her shoulders was not one of them.
“Head Healer,” a soldier pushed away the thinning cloth that was her door. The tournament will conclude soon, and I will escort you.” Uraraka splashed five-day-old water on her face before straightening her tunic and following the stoic man.
The air was thick with the bitter scent of sweat and blood, mingling in the aftermath of the brutal fighting tournament that had just concluded. Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the ancient stone walls of the healing hall, casting ghostly shadows across the rough-hewn floors. Uraraka knelt amidst the chaos, her hands steady as she prepared her supplies, a practiced ritual that belied the turmoil.
Surrounded by flickering torches, she could see the remnants of the battles fought recently, bodies sprawled in various states of agony, some whispering prayers, others simply groaning with the pain that clawed at them. It was a symphony of suffering, one that haunted her.
Outside, the crowd's roars still echoed, reverberating like thunder in her ears. They had come to witness brutality, to revel in the glory of victory amidst the carnage. But inside the healing hall, Uraraka’s world was one of quiet desperation, where the actual fight lay in her hands. She could hear the sounds of the winners celebrating, but all she felt was the weight of the losses, the stark reminder of how fragile life was.
“More water!” she called, her voice cutting through the haze of despair as a fellow slave boy hurried to fill a cracked clay pitcher. She could see the resolve in his young face, a determination that mirrored her own, and it made her heart swell with a fleeting hope. Their shared suffering bound them.
Uraraka dipped a cloth into the cool water and pressed it against the wound of a fallen fighter, a massive man whose chest heaved in ragged breaths. His brawny body was adorned with a tapestry of bruises, vivid purples and blacks marking a life spent in the arena.
“Stay with me,” she softly whispered, meeting his brown eyes clouded with pain. “You’re going to be alright. I need you to hold on.” In that moment, she wasn’t just a healer; she was a lifeline, someone who could offer the promise of life even as shadows of death lingered at the edges.
The fighter winced as she applied a salve, a mixture of herbs and oils she had brewed in the quiet night hours in preparation for the tournament. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, summoning the light green magic to her palms. She worked through the wounds around her with deft fingers, a rhythm as familiar as breathing.
“Why do you heal us?” the man whimpered, his voice cracking. “Why must you serve them?”
Uraraka paused, the question settling heavily in the air. “Because it is all I know,” she replied softly, her fingers continuing their work as she avoided meeting his gaze. “We survive. That is our mission.”
“Your collar,” he reached up to finger the sleek black metal bound to her neck. “How do you heal with this in place?”
“All I know is healing magic,” she whispered, eyeing the room to ensure she wasn’t being observed. “I am allowed to use some of my magic as long as I abide by the Crown Prince’s rule. He alone controls how much I can use.”
The Magic Cancelling Cuffs were a gift for her for her thirteenth winter. Uraraka attempted to heal a young child with a deadly fever, but the magic slipped from her grasp. The power unfurled in a blinding flash, crackling with uncontrolled energy. The child was healed, yet the magical overflow struck those nearby, causing chaos in the Healing Hall. Plants withered under the intensity, while others grew uncontrollably; small fires sparked spontaneously, and the atmosphere buzzed with charged energy.
The Crown Prince ordered cuffs crafted from rare, enchanted metals designed to suppress the bearer's power, rendering it dormant. She knew that with her magic bound, she could no longer help those in need as she once did, as a single person controlled her magic. She felt the magic within her retreat as the cuff was placed upon her neck. It was different than the wrist cuffs she wore before, where she could feel the constant hum of magic running through her body.
Never before had a healer shown so much promise. Uraraka had been moved from her position as the general populous healer to being trained to assist the top Pit Fighters, Interrogators, and anyone else the Crown Prince deemed worthy.
The night dragged on, ebbing and flowing, filled with cries for help and the soft murmur of her reassurances. With each body she healed, she felt the weight of hope grow heavier. Bodies of the living and dead bled into each other, her body falling into a rhythm as she circled the room.
As dawn crept closer, its light filtering through the cracks in the stone, Uraraka found herself drawn to a figure in the corner of the room. A young man, no older than eighteen summers, lay still, his body battered and broken. Blood trickled from his brow and ears, and his chest rose and fell with laboured breaths. Uraraka’s pulse quickened as she approached; this man had been one of the competitors, fierce and wild in the arena.
Uraraka knelt beside him, gently brushing the hair from his face. “You fought bravely,” she whispered, unsure if the man could hear her. “Please, don’t give up.” But as she assessed the severity of the wounds, despair curled in her stomach. The man’s spirit was fighting, but his body was betraying him.
“Please, allow me to help you,” Uraraka begged softly. She channelled her healing into the wounds, but even as she worked, she felt the familiar weight of helplessness settle over her like a shroud.
“Some wounds cannot be healed,” he whispered through laboured breaths. Can you ease my journey into the afterlife?” Uraraka nodded her head as a faint yellow glow pulsed from her hands. One hand was over his heart to ease the ache of death, and one was over his head to bring forth any happy memories.
“Thank you.”
Uraraka’s heart felt torn in the late morning light as she looked around at those she had healed. Each one was a testament to survival, warriors in their own right. In comparison, the bodies of the deceased were being loaded onto carts to be burned before illness spread.
As the sun began to rise, painting the sky in hues of crimson and gold, Uraraka made her way back to her small quarters. The sounds of the bustling arena faded into the background, replaced by the rustle of rats in the streets. Each step carried her closer to her sanctuary, a place where she could shed the weight of the world and prepare for another day in a life that demanded every ounce of strength she had.
The path to her quarters was familiar. Cracks in the stone paths often caught her foot, but today, even the tiny inconveniences felt minuscule compared to the weight of pain she had borne throughout the night.
Finally, she reached the small alcove that led to her living space. She was greeted by the familiar warmth of her room, a cozy nook furnished with only the essentials. A small cot hugged the wall, and a simple clay oil lamp flickered dimly on a rough table, casting soft shadows.
Enclosed in her sanctuary, she leaned against the wall momentarily, exhaling the tension that had built throughout the night. Uraraka was exhausted, but her mind was still awash with the events. The first task was to prepare for the night. She moved to the small shelf where her herbs and salves were kept, gathering the remnants of her supplies from the day.
She organized her materials with practiced hands, setting aside what she could repurpose for tomorrow. The act was soothing, a ritual that allowed her to decompress and focus on something tangible amidst the chaos of her thoughts. After putting away her supplies, Uraraka turned her attention to the cot. As she pulled back the quilt, revealing the soft blanket beneath, she breathed a small sigh of relief. It had been a long night, and rest was a precious commodity rarely afforded to her.
She climbed into bed, the quilt tucked around her in comfort. As she lay back and stared at the ceiling, her mind wandered, contemplating everything she had witnessed throughout the night. If she were lucky, she’d get a few hours of sleep before the next soldier came into her home to demand something of her. Uraraka closed her eyes and allowed the soothing embrace of sleep to envelop her.
It had been nearly five years since his capture, yet the details of that day remained etched in his mind with alarming clarity. He could still feel the morning air's chill clinging to his skin as he rode back from the river, his loyal horse trotting diligently beneath him, the sound of water rushing beside them, a comforting melody in the stillness of dawn. Life had been simple then, laughter shared with his father and sister and dreams of a future unmarred by violence.
How naive he had been.
The ambush had come without warning, a blur of cloaks and steel flashing through the underbrush. Looking back on it, Shinsou could still conjure the sounds: the unearthly shrieks of men and horses colliding in chaos, the clatter of weapons raised against the unsuspecting.
Defiance burned in his chest as he swung his sword against the encroaching shadows, but it did little to change the tide. The numbers had overwhelmed him; men clad in dark armour had seized him with practiced brutality, shackling his hands behind his back as they dragged him from his mount. He could still hear the curses and shouts, the cracking of their laughter as they shouted taunts.
Shinsou’s gaze drifted across the horizon, remembering the sun glinting off the metal of the chains that now adorned his wrists, cold and heavy. He had never considered slavery a fate that could befall him, an endless cycle that bound generations before him. But at that moment, the brutal reality of his capture and his world had unravelled.
Sitting there, he could almost feel the sharp pang of fear that had shot through him when he realized he was being sold. The slave auction was a brutal affair—a pitiless display of humanity reduced to mere commodities. Even now, the distant memory of the shouting crowds felt vivid, reverberating in his bones. The scent of sweat, dirt, and urine hung thick in the air, mixed with the underlying stench of degradation as he stood among other captives, stripped of their dignity and forced to be bare for the buyers to see.
“Two silver pieces for the young one over there!” a voice rang out, sharp and commanding.
“Sold!” The gavel had struck relentlessly against the wooden block, marking the finality of his fate. His heart sank. He had been shoved into the hands of a stranger, one who would make him into a tool for labour, forgetting the boy who had once run wild through golden fields without fear.
Shinsou’s chest tightened as he recalled the journey to his new home, shackled and thrown into the back of a cart with other newly acquired slaves. Fear mingled with resentment as they crossed the landscape, each bump in the road a reminder that he was no longer free. He could hear the soft cries of his fellow captives as they confronted their despair, a chorus of broken spirits.
Upon his arrival in Marconam, he was given water and placed in a stadium with several other young men around his age. There were roughly thirty slave boys there with one handler and several soldiers.
“We will only be taking ten of you on,” the handler grunted as he tossed several weapons into the arena. “The last ten standing will be healed and be given jobs here in the Great City of Marconam! There are no rules, so begin.” Shinsou dove for a sword to his right, coming out victorious.
A low whistle pulled him from his reverie. He blinked back the haze of the past, focusing on the present as a figure approached, Uraraka. A fellow slave, healer, and companion, she walked with purpose, her arms laden with herbs and the promise of restoration. Her presence was a balm to his weary heart, a reminder that they were both shackled and resilient.
“Shinsou,” she called, a smile breaking across her face as she neared. “Deep in thought, I see. Replaying those memories again?”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he met her gaze. “It seems I cannot escape my past. They haunt me like a shadow.”
Uraraka set down the herbs and joined him on the bench in her clinic, her expression shifting to one of understanding. “Memories can weigh heavily. But remember, we are not defined by what happened to us but by how we choose to respond.”
He held her gaze, her words igniting a flicker of that stubborn hope within him once more. “You always know what to say, Uraraka. And yet…I cannot help but feel the weight of my past.”
“A dark day, indeed,” she whispered, her chocolate eyes losing some of their brightness. “However, you’re stuck with me now.”
Shinsou chuckled as her shoulder playfully bumped into his. “How lucky am I that you are the Head Healer and I am part of the Elite Interrogator squad.”
“Not like the Crown Prince could afford his Elite team to become incapacitated due to sub-par healers,” they chuckled, fully knowing the truth of her statement. Uraraka had surpassed Garaki three years ago and, thus, was thrust into a new position.
“So, your birthday is one moon cycle away. Anything you want? Besides the usual,” he smiled at his best friend. Each year, their common wish had been freedom, which was in short supply.
“Nope. I already got what I wanted!” She excitedly clapped her hands as passersby looked at her oddly. Happiness was not something that was often expressed. “The rabbit is now my responsibility.”
“Seriously?” Shinsou raised an eyebrow at the simplicity of her happiness. Not that he wasn’t ecstatic for her, but having to look after a rabbit would not bring him joy.
“Yes! She is special,” she whispered knowingly. Just wait and see! Anyway, I'd better get these herbs back to the clinic to be processed. When will I see you next?”
“We’re heading out tomorrow, so I’m not sure,” he shrugged, knowing Uraraka understood. I’ll find you when I’m back.”
“Be safe,” she kissed his cheek as she always did before he departed on his next task from the Crown Prince. “Later.”
“Later.” When Uraraka was out of sight, he took to the rooftops. Shinsou always ensured his best friend entered the healer’s quarters unbothered by the scum that were loitering around. They knew the penalty for harming the Head Healer, woman or not. Most abide by that rule due to the threat of losing their manhood, but their lustful eyes still followed Uraraka’s every movement. She could hold her own against them since they’d been training in combat in secret for the past three years.
Once he knew Uraraka was safe, he headed to his home balcony. “What has my life become?” Shinsou murmured to himself. Chains that bound him now, not just the iron restraints that confined his body but the emotional shackles that tightened around him. He wandered the familiar streets back to his abode.
Where do I go from here?
The question echoed through his mind like a relentless drumbeat. The answer was unclear, and the path ahead remained uncertain.
His legs dangled from the ledge of the roof of his home. Above the world's whispers, he could reflect on everything that had transpired. The cool breeze ruffled his hair, and he wondered if the others felt the same. Did they question the cost of their Elite status? Were they content in their gilded cages? Shinsou thought there was a couple who had a similar mindset to his, but saying such things could cost him his life.
The world below seemed constant and ever-shifting, mirroring his internal conflicts. The notion of "tides of change" had been whispered among some of his peers, a hint of a raid that felt both thrilling and daunting. It symbolized a shift in how they perceived their lives. These thoughts pulled at his heart, urging him to imagine a world where he could escape the shackles.
As the night deepened, Shinsou reflected on the tasks that occupied his hands from dawn till dusk, every movement dictated by the will of others. In the silence of his rest space, a different voice began to speak—a voice filled with questions of what life could be beyond these walls. He thought of open fields where he might walk at his own pace, conversations that weren't bound by the fear of punishment, and a life defined by choices rather than chains. To feel the soft touch of grass under his feet, hear his sister's laughter in a world where he was more than a shadow - a sister who would now be twelve winters old.
Tonight, like every other night, he clung to hope as his most precious possession, whispering promises of tomorrow as he succumbed to the weariness of today, determined to rise again with the dawn.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Autumn, Jaskier thought, was the smell of rain blowing through the branches of apple trees, the sight of fields of wheat slowly bowing to the scythe, the sounds of sizzling butter and lard as towns began to fry up more delectable treats. The season was found in each tavern where those working the fields congregated, talking and drinking before heading home to get what rest they could, in each child scrambling up the trunks of trees when adults weren't looking, trying to snag a sweet snack for themselves, in the way merchants in large towns and simple traders in small ones began to show off warmer fabrics. Autumn was bright oranges and reds and golds, gentle browns, and skies which fluctuated between the richest blues and the stormy greys of rain clouds.
It wasn't usually a time of stark whites, or deep blacks.
So it was especially unusual to see such a severely colored witcher wandering through town.
Of course, Jaskier was well aware it was typical to see witchers mostly in the spring and summer, so he felt a bit grateful to have noticed one with autumn so near. Especially one who looked as though he'd walked straight out of a tale of winter faeries and royal curses. Jaskier said quick goodbyes to the few people he'd stopped to speak with, rushing to catch up with the witcher.
"Hello there!" he called, surprised when the witcher gave no signs he'd heard. Jaskier picked up the pace, making sure to walk up on the side of the horse where the witcher walked. "Greetings! How are you this fine day witcher? Might I, ah, borrow some of your time-?"
The witcher stopped abruptly then, meaning Jaskier caught up rather quicker than he'd thought, wobbling a bit as he came to a stop.
"Got a contract?" the witcher grunted. And oh, what a lovely, deep and growly voice. Jaskier wanted to hear this man purr his name in bed- Wait.
"Ah," Jaskier said, pulling himself out of his fantasizing about this incredibly muscled witcher pinning him down. "Not as such, I simply- Hey now, hold on!"
Jaskier started walking again when the witcher did, huffing out an annoyed breath.
"Then you don't need to speak with me, bard."
"Well, I'd hoped to get to know you. It's not so often one comes across a witcher, especially without monster...-y circumstances! I'd be a fool to pass it up."
Jaskier got a look from the witcher then, something flat, with a bit of a wrinkled brow. It could have meant the witcher was thinking him a fool anyway, or it could simply be that this witcher always looked a bit grumpy; He
did
have one of those faces. And yet, how masculine and chiseled it was! Jaskier might get good inspiration simply watching this incredible specimen of a witcher. Though hearing of his actual adventures would surely be even better.
Jaskier took a deep breath and sped up his steps. He'd need persistence and fortitude, but he was quite sure he and this witcher would be friends in no time.
They were not friends--at least not from the witcher's perspective--and barely traveling companions at that. For
some
reason the witcher, with the beautifully masculine name of Geralt, did not want Jaskier around. Sure, it was difficult to keep up a quick cross-country pace, but even Geralt had to stop and rest, for his mare--the poor horse named
Roach
of all things--if nothing else. And certainly, Jaskier would be of no help in the few contracts Geralt took along the way, but he didn't get in Geralt's way either! ...Much. Not after that first time anyway! Jaskier had learned his lesson on what was considered a safe distance quite quickly. (Getting ripped and blood- and gut-stained doublets will do that.)
So while Jaskier was gathering material for songs, quite a lot actually, Geralt was
very
inspiring, the witcher seemed perfectly content to ignore Jaskier in the hopes he'd simply go away. It was... childish, in a way. Or perhaps a show of remarkable restraint, since Geralt had pulled him away from several fights he'd started--and intended to
win
thank you--when cityfolk spat or cursed at Geralt.
It was- it was unacceptable! Jaskier's fury over that sort of treatment only fueled his song writing, until he had enough to make a debut of one at a tavern, songs two and three following quickly. While he hadn't had much time to win over crowds with them--yet!--he was certain he could eventually convince the common populace of how helpful witchers were, if not how dashing.
Likely, it would take years; Jaskier had a sense for that sort of thing. He knew, but he dedicated himself to it, then and there, after only two weeks of following this man, the brooding, sad, and compassionate Geralt. It was a task which was important, one which Jaskier would never turn from. Becoming a famous bard would only be a bonus, really. And also important! After all, how many more people would listen to and beg for his songs if he was well-known? He might even be able to affect the way some nobility thought... in time...
Well. Something to shoot for, anyway, regardless of how difficult
or impossible
it might be!
In the meantime, he and Geralt were apparently not friends.
...Yet.
The next town they came across, they were lucky. The spring wheat had been harvested, thrashed, and either ground or prepared for fermenting, leaving most townsfolk free to prepare for a harvest festival. It was also a happy medium for Jaskier's and Geralt's tastes, big enough for crowds Jaskier could play for, small enough Geralt wasn't constantly scrunching his nose, or run out of town by the nobility's guardsmen.
All that to say, the town was having a celebration, Jaskier and Geralt were there, and they were
going
to have fun. He'd cast about for a good reason to stay when Geralt had gone to the headsman to check if there were any last minute contracts or problems. The scent of sweet apples drew Jaskier in, and he found himself talking with a group of women who were preparing food, mostly sweets. They'd already finished sharing the large ovens for breads of all kinds, and were currently creating treats which made Jaskier's mouth water just hearing about them. He begged for a couple of them, offering to play for the festival, and while there was some teasing deliberation, they agreed. So it was that Jaskier called Geralt over when they met up again, two treats held carefully in a small basket. He saw Geralt's nostrils flare, but cut him off quickly first, needing to know...
"Did you get a contract?"
"...Small one," Geralt admitted, "just a couple nekkers."
Which, as Jaskier had learned, sort of hibernated during the winter, but used that time to make more nekkers, which made them far more dangerous. he almost asked to come along, but had learned that when it came to potential swarms of small, but quick and deadly creatures, Geralt was far more subborn. After all, humans weren't built for speed, and despite his complaints, Geralt did try to keep Jaskier safe. Instead, he nodded.
"So you'll head out tomorrow then?"
"Yes."
"Good! Yes, so then you have time to enjoy this little treat." Jaskier ushered him over to a low stone wall, Roach shifting but calmly staying where Geralt placed her. First, Jaskier drew out a small, plain apple, giving it to Geralt with the instruction, "It's for Roach."
The witcher, thankfully, didn't seem offended. He seemed pleased, actually, gently patting Roach's nose before offering her the treat, watching fondly as she gobbled it up and lipped at him for more. Jaskier felt his heart clenching and cleared his throat.
"And, of course, for us!" He pulled out the other two apples, these roasted and still warm, stuffed with spiced oats and cooked with butter, the scent of tart apple and sweet oats mixing so well with the earthy nutmeg, clove, and mace. Geralt's eyes locked onto them, and he stilled. Jaskier could tell he was taking in especially deep breaths by the way his stomach pushed out. A good sign, so far. Gesturing to Geralt's waist, he said, "Get a knife?"
Geralt did as asked, pulling out his small knife, usually used for cooking, skinning, and the like, and at Jaskier's prompting, cut both apples in half. They fell apart easily, revealing the filling cooked to a beautiful brown inside. Jaskier offered one apple to Geralt, watching as the witcher took it almost reverently. Jaskier took a bite of his, trying not to get swept away by the delicious flavors and textures; he wanted to watch Geralt. And the view did not disappoint.
When the witcher bit tentatively into his own apple, clearly still surprised he had received it, Jaskier noted the second the flavors hit his tongue. His eyelids fluttered, a low hum escaped him, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His every movement seemed to become more languid, like the sweetness of the baked apple had slowed him to syrup-consistency.
He hummed again with his next bite, and Jaskier had several very dirty thoughts about that voice. And those beautiful lips. And the flashes of
slightly
sharper-than-human teeth.
Only when golden eyes flashed over to his face did Jaskier startle and keep eating his own apple. It was delicious, of course, but sharing it on a stone wall, in the gentle breeze of an autumn evening, was even better.
The preparations the next day flew by, so that the festivities were prepared by afternoon, right before Geralt came back covered in dirt, leaves, and sweat. Jaskier, having already found a place to begin performing, noticed the townsfolk noticing Geralt, and immediately burst into one of his newest pieces, extolling one of Geralt's many virtues--in this case his bravery in defending people against monsters. The townsfolk seemed to relax, a few calling out thanks to the witcher, even, as he made his way to the headsman. It took only one more set before Geralt made a reappearance. Jaskier was elated someone had done as he'd asked earlier in the day and already had a bath drawn for Geralt, since he looked cleaner, if more damp, and lacking some pieces of armor; Jaskier guessed they were back in the room they'd paid for. He looked... softer, like that. Someone in the crowd must have agreed, since soon enough he was seated close to where Jaskier was performing, with a beer in one hand and a plate of fried potato pancakes in the other.
For another set, Jaskier performed. And for that whole time, though he didn't speak to anyone, Geralt seemed to relax, almost enjoying himself, drinking and eating and watching everyone else. It was after Jaskier stopped for a short break--stealing some of Geralt's drink--that the town began the full evening celebrations.
A man who had to be the headsman appeared with a procession of other townsfolk, one of whom held up a circular crown made from the fields’ last wheat sheaf braided with flowers and some simple ribbons. The townsfolk said a few blessings to their local deities, thanking them for their harvests. They praised the circular cycles of the year, and asked for a continuation of their good fortunes. When they followed it up by thanking the headsman for his guidance of the town, they paused for a brief moment before adding, "And for wisely asking the witcher to rid us of the monsters in the glade!"
The crowd cheered as the crown was placed on the headsman, though a good chunk of people looked over to where Geralt and Jaskier sat, cheering in their direction. Jaskier perked up, basking in the attention Geralt was getting--rightfully so--though Geralt himself hunched his shoulders as if he could sink beneath the table and no one would notice him. (Unlikely, given both his size and the townspeoples' mood.) The cheering transitioned quickly into a call for more food and drink and dancing, so Jaskier got back up to play more, flashing Geralt quick smile as he went.
The night went well, with lots of dancing, music, food, drink, and a celebratory atmosphere which didn't start quieting down until the torches and candles began burning down, the harvest moon sinking lower in the sky.
As Jaskier stumbled to their room, everything dark, a large hand around his back even as soft sighs sounded behind him, he giggled.
"That went well."
"Hmm."
"You enjoyed it," Jaskier stated, certain. "Me too."
"Get into bed."
"Oooh,
Geralt
-"
"No."
"Ger-
alt
."
"You'll be upset if you leave your doublet on the floor."
Jaskier grumbled, because Geralt was right, but still... "At least give me a goodnight kiss?" He squeaked as he fell over, right onto the bed in the room. "You push-!"
But Geralt was removing his shoes, then shucking his own boots, and laying down next to him. Jaskier let his head fall back, trying to peer through the dark and discern Geralt's expression.
"Goodnight."
Jaskier huffed, but closed his eyes. Later, as he was shuffling around, trying to find a more comfortable position, a large arm wrapped around him. He stilled, and Geralt stilled. Then Jaskier hummed and wiggled more firmly into the grip, relaxing at the muscle under his cheek. He worried, for a moment, when Geralt didn't relax for several very long minutes. Eventually, however, he did, bit by bit.
Carefully pressed against each other, Jaskier drifted, glad to have the witcher at his side. Geralt, he knew, would be a turning point in his life. As the soft rumbles under his ear lulled him into sleep, Jaskier couldn't find anything to regret.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
When she was seven years old, she braved the dining room of Wayne Manor
. Men were everywhere and her parents were too busy putting on a show to bother to care for her. She was in her little expensive dress with the bows. Her father had bought it for her. Oh, how Maisie missed her life before. Before she found out she was an affair baby. Before her father went insane trying to remain immortal in the eyes of the Gotham Mob. Before her mother overdosed on sleeping medication.
She was lost. She couldn’t find her mother or father, and she was sleepy. Maisie sat on the steps of the manor, tears streaming from her face. She wanted to go home, and she wanted her parents.
“Why’re you crying, kiddo?” a man with blue eyes and black hair that fell in front of his eyes knelt down in front of her. Richard Grayson, ward of Bruce Wayne, and a silly guy who her parents didn’t like. They thought he was a hoodlum, because he specifically was from a traveling circus. Maisie went to see their show with Lady Elizabeth Kane before it shut down. It changed her life. “Is something the matter?”
She touched her ears, patting them as she sniffled. Maisie was nursing a nasty headache and she was pretty sure she was sick. But the nice man gave her a charismatic smile. He was like Bruce Wayne but younger, and also, cooler.
Richard Grayson then brought her to the garden and taught her the names of all the flowers in the garden. She went home that night with strelitzia, a pretty kind of flower
. She developed the flu over the course of two days after the dinner. She looked out for Richard Grayson after that, making sure to bring him a new flower every time they met.
Then he moved to become a cop in Bludhaven.
And she never saw him again.
Sitting in Wayne Manor after years of avoiding it, Maisie was starting to suspect this was some kind of ploy to get her to join their companies. She was kind of hoping that it wasn’t the case. She looked up to Bruce Wayne, and found him interesting. He was an orphan, as was she. The thing that solely separated them was the fact he came from loving parents, and she came from a bastard.
She fiddled with the salad fork, staring at the empty set area. It was set just like everyone else, but a little nameplate was there.
Jason.
The dead kid from when she was younger. That was four whole years ago. That poor kid, right, he was a ward of Bruce’s. He’d been adopted and then was murdered. That was the rumor at least. Maisie didn’t care much for rumors anymore.
She twisted her paste around her fork, staring at her glass of wine. Bruce had hesitated to pour it, watching her with unease. Yes, she could handle her alcohol. She was a mature, young woman obviously. She was nineteen, not some useless child. She smiled at him. She was feeling smug and also had enough wine in her system to drive a grown man insane.
“I’m assuming you didn’t just ask me here because your son is back in town,” Maisie said, resting her head on her palm. “I’m not interested if you intend on making a romantic situation out of the two of us.”
Wayne blinked, and Richard Grayson came in, laughing. He seemed uncomfortable around Wayne, like something wasn’t right. Maisie could tell. She knew a thing or two, or so she liked to pretend. She sat across from the empty seat with the nameplate. She wanted to comment on it and ask why they immortalized Jason Todd with an empty plate of food.
“Maisie Graham,” Richard Grayson said, taking a long sip of Dr. Pepper. “I haven’t seen you since you were a kid. Can’t believe you’re eighteen already.” He didn’t say it like the men who wanted to have sex with her. No, Grayson said it like she was an odd bean sprout. He regarded her like a little flower that finally sprouted petals. “You’re a businesswoman now, or so I hear?”
“Yeah,” Maisie said, smiling a little. She looked down at her hand, the one with the purity ring. She wasn’t sure why she wore it. People liked to point it out. They would zoom in on her hand, and analyze who she could potentially get married to. She wouldn’t mind marrying a nice older woman, or a man that didn’t see her as just a pretty young thing. That didn’t happen though, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to marry someone anymore. “I’m an incredible businesswoman.” She took another bite of her pasta. “How’s Bludhaven?”
“It’s okay,” he said with a slight shrug. “Lots of crime to stop, not enough time in the day to sleep.” He patted Wayne’s shoulder, though it seemed kind of hostile. She noticed how Wayne kind of tensed at the touch. It all seemed so made up. Maisie wasn’t sure how they were normally, but this all felt scripted. “Bruce needed me here for something, so I decided to come back for a little while. Left Bludhaven for good ol’ Gotham.”
“This place is hell on Earth, you should’ve stayed out.” Wayne chugged down his glass of wine, pouring himself another. Maisie stared at her ring again, twisting it around. “At least it hasn’t all gone to shit, especially ‘cause that masked guy is doing some of the work Batman and Robin aren't doing.”
Grayson’s eyebrows shot up. “Right, that Hood guy. It’s all gossip. I mean I haven’t seen anyone like that.”
Maisie was drunk. She was drunk and yapping her trap, she knew that. She should shut up, say goodnight, and call her driver. Instead, she leaned forward, a slight smile on her face. “I’ve seen him.” her heart beat a little faster. “He’s real.”
Cold, wooden pews rested underneath her red knees. She clutched her rosary, praying for a moment of normalcy. She did this sometimes. She went when there was no one. It was just her, the priest, and an imaginary man who didn’t know her. No one knew her. She was alone. You would think she had lots of friends, but Maisie had no one. She had no girlfriends to gossip with, no boys to make out with behind bleachers, and she was sure she was going to be like that for a while.
She wondered, for a moment, what it would be like to be a mother. Would she be a good mother? Maisie was alone, and in some of her dreams, she had children. She wondered if she would be a good mother, a better mother than the one she was given. Lady Elizabeth Kane was a good mother, but she wasn’t hers. She looked up at the crucified man on the wall, and thought about his mother. Did his mother cry for him? If Maisie’s mother was still alive, would she cry for her?
She doubted it.
The priest handed her the body and blood of Christ. Maisie ate it with a simple expression. She wasn’t a devoted Catholic, but she wanted something to believe in. Was everything she’d ever done based on a rotten legacy that died every time she spoke? She wasn’t sure anymore. She wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
After church, Maisie went home and lay in bed. She stared up at the ceiling, before turning on her side. She had her pills on her nightstand. There were pills for her iron deficiency, to her birth control ones. She never really needed them anyway. It wasn’t like she could have a sexual partner. No one liked her because she was a girl deserving of love, only loving her because she was the Graham heir. She was pathetic, wasn’t she?
She had more meetings, this time with Black Mask. She gave these people the privilege of speaking to her. She zoned out during these encounters, only listening when it was neccary. Other times, she argued, slamming her hands on the table. She was like her father, the one who she knew. He didn’t count. She knew that too. Maisie was like both men she never met, angry and alone.
She was chasing a ghost, and the only thing she owned from them both was a name and some beads blessed with holy water.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Arbiter General Jing Yuan is dying. He's done everything in his power to stay. Yanqing is grown, now, but still his son. Still his to care for.
There's only so much he can do. Mara has taken him from the battlefield, and soon, it will take him from his family.
Soon, Yanqing will strike him down with his own hands.
Jing Yuan clings to his life. He clings to his sanity. Selfish, he is, to torment his closest in this way. Just one more day. One more day with them. One more day with his son. One more day with Fu Xuan, who he never dared to pursue, knowing more than well enough that she would outlive him.
She will make a fine Arbiter General.
Every breath burns. He's alone, today, so he must hold out for tomorrow. (He is so very scared of being alone).
His mind drowns in memories of scarlet and gold. War takes a toll, and he has never been a strong man. Cunning and stubborn, but strong?
No, never strong.
He spends all his time like this, now. Resting in bed (it can barely be called rest) or sitting out in Yanqing's garden. It used to belong to Jing Yuan, but he can't tend it anymore. The fresh air is supposed to do him good.
If he were strong, he would have ended his own life. It's the only thing between his family and the grief they must inevitably face: the fact that he clings, selfishly, to one more day.
Every day.
It's been months since the first severe attack. Jing Yuan wishes to forget it. To forget the terror in Yanqing's voice, grasping his shoulders and guiding him away from a crowd that already murmured of his death.
All people of the Xianzhou know what it means when an Arbiter General falls ill, for it simply isn't something that happens.
Jing Yuan forces himself out of bed. Each movement is a new hell of pain, but it is this pain that drives the memories away. He drags himself to his feet only to stumble and fall.
Someone catches him. He has not the presence of mind to wonder who. Jing Yuan clings, desperately, every breath a heaving effort.
"Foolish General."
"Yingxing," he murmurs, a sweet lie on his lips.
"I'm not him."
Blade chastises, as he always does. He guides Jing Yuan to the chair beneath the open window he'd surely used to sneak in. Jing Yuan collapses gracelessly. Blade pulls him up, propping him into a position that won't hurt so badly.
"I know."
It's rare, these days. To not be lost to delirium. He knows who stands before him.
"...Of the five of us, Jing Yuan, you were never supposed to pay such a price."
Jing Yuan smiles. Blade cradles his face in his hands, frowning, then draws away with a sigh.
"You know why I'm here, General."
"Of course."
He's always there when Jing Yuan is alone. Sometimes real, sometimes not. This will be the last time.
"And you claim to be a monster."
"Even monsters have their uses."
Blade turns away, hands shoved in his pockets, to admire Starfall Reverie. It's only natural. She's become a decoration on the wall since Jing Yuan lost the strength to hold her, though he knows she deserves better.
"...I want you to keep her, Yingxing."
"Hm."
It's as good as he's going to get.
Blade returns to his side. Jing Yuan leans into him. He's warm, as always, and the Abundance in their veins croons and calls out, soothing the both of them. The pain is less. It remains indescribable.
"Do you have a preference?"
Jing Yuan looks up, bleary, at his companion's solemn expression. It takes him time to put together the meaning.
How does he wish to die?
It doesn't matter. He is only relieved that Blade will take this burden from Yanqing's shoulders.
"No," he squeezes Blade's hand, "I don't."
"Then close your eyes, Jing Yuan."
He does as he's told. Blade's warmth lingers on his fingertips.
It is not Shard Sword that plunges through his chest, he knows, from shape alone. How fitting. Yingxing will never truly change, pulling Starfall Reverie free, blood gushing from the wound with something that is far more relief than it is agony.
"Sleep, now. Savor paradise in my place."
Blade rests their foreheads together. Jing Yuan is not alone.
He does as he's told.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
It wasn’t like home.
This conversation would have happened in their kitchen with coffee Steve made, and ham and eggs, and leftovers from the previous night—except that Bucky had been a coward before. He’d been shitty and difficult and Steve was right, anyway. It wasn’t like the piece of HYDRA trash was going to fix itself, and the alternative was just not having an arm, which…
Losing an arm was one thing—losing Steve? Hell no. And Steve didn’t want to play nursemaid to Bucky all the damn time. Bucky was just going to have to man the fuck up and let Stark’s guys look at the stupid arm.
He’d realized it all about a half a second before Steve walked out the door. He’d dragged his feet and argued,
insubordination will not be tolerated
, and now he had to meet Steve here, in this neutral limbo, and he had no right to hate it.
Bucky tried to be subtle about his discomfort. The coffee shop was nice, even when he
wasn’t
comparing it to outright torture, and that was the real test of how swanky a place was. It was warm, and the music was quiet enough that he could easily hear the conversations around him, and in Steve’s absence, he listened in. It was probably an abuse of that super hearing or whatever, but it wasn’t like he knew these people, and the mundane dramas of a partner who wasn’t pulling their weight with childcare or the surreptitious planning of a retirement party were distractions. It was a reminder that life went on, that no matter what else was happening, people would just keep on being people.
The waitress had checked on him six or seven times now, and Bucky wished he’d shown up later. Steve had said one. He’d be here at one. Bucky glanced at his watch, chagrined to see that it was still only eleven thirty-five.
It was eleven thirty-five, and this wasn’t the kind of joint where coffee was bottomless, so it seemed a bit rude that the waitress so clearly wished he’d pay up and go—he was paying good money to sulk here. But he was eating up space, and the waitress clearly thought he was pathetic. He hadn’t ordered anything yet, and apparently “waiting for a friend” was getting old, but at a robust almost-a-fucking-hundred, Bucky had earned the privilege of sulking over cold coffee while an impatient waitress tried to ignore him.
It was his God-given right as an American.
Steve, teacher’s pet and chronic watch-synchronizer, arrived ‘right on time’—five minutes early—and sat down, nervous, saying, “I didn’t mean to make you wait.”
“No,” Bucky’s disused voice was off, croaky, and embarrassment only made the lie sound stupider. “I just got here.”
Steve looked at Bucky’s hand like he wanted to touch it. Even though he knew the feeling of being touched would make him want to crawl out of his skin, Bucky wished he would. He really wished Steve would just… make everything better. It was about as practical and likely as a toilet seat made of gold, but a guy could wish...
Anyway, Steve used to be a regular Mr. Fix-It before Bucky’s brain hit blender this last time and started making both their lives extra fun. He used to be able to shoo away the shadows. It had been such a hellish, messy, violent return to sanity for Bucky, and, through it all, Steve had been there. He’d been a fucking lighthouse, a refuge. He’d shouldered so goddamn much that it was frankly cruel for Bucky to try to pile more on him, but his heart was a ridiculous thing. Not a lick of good sense.
Still, he remembered nights waking up disoriented and wild with fear, and Steve holding him, Steve waking him and putting him to bed, Steve shepherding the zombie he was for weeks. Steve had been his whole world, and Bucky had been terrible; fractious and angry, he’d thrown food and clawed against gentle touch. He’d been a wild animal.
He owed Steve everything, so before Steve could say anything, Bucky beat him to the punch.
“I’ll do it.”
It was hard not to see Steve’s presence here, in the pristine lab at Stark Tower, as a statement of distrust. He’d said, “I’ll go with you,” like it was a favor, but it wasn’t. Bucky had the distinct impression that he was being handled. Managed. Better Steve, he supposed, than anybody HYDRA had assigned.
God, but at least HYDRA hadn’t made him read fucking “consent forms” before this kind of shit. This time there was homework—a questionnaire where he had to write down risks and benefits of getting the stupid arm tuned so it wouldn’t hurt all the time, and he was pretty sure there’d just be more hassle if he wrote “Risks: I lose my marbles and kill everybody in the room, Benefits: Steve will finally quit looking at me like that.”
He didn’t even
want
to get it fixed—he was fine with it hurting when it got warm or when there was a magnet nearby.
“It’s going to be okay,” Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s bouncing leg, and he wrestled himself to stillness. The air was cold. It was heavy in his lungs and heavy on his skin.
His body hunkered, locked up muscles afraid to even shiver, and it was ridiculous. It was stupid. There was no
reason
for this. He wished they’d just… He wished they’d tie him down—that way, he wouldn’t have to fight to stay still.
The engineer Stark brought in sat at his fingertips. The orthopedic surgeon settled near his shoulder, where the maroon snarl of scar couldn’t decide between painful oversensitivity and numbness where it was touched.
It was all overwhelming
before
these specialists came in and started talking all at once to each other and Bucky and Stark. Objectively, Bucky knew that there was nothing threatening about them. They greeted him, they spoke kindly, they joked. Thoroughly vetted experts, they had been handpicked because they were skilled and safe, but nothing could convince the cringing trapped animal in Bucky’s brain of that.
If there was one thing he could thank HYDRA for, it was the fact that he could keep his freaking out to himself. Nobody needed a supersoldier having a
visible
panic attack. Bucky would have laughed, but he felt like shit— It was a good fucking thing that they hadn’t started actually watching his vitals yet.
A bit before they injected local anesthetic—where he had to assume the arm insinuated itself into his shoulder and back, but it wasn’t like anybody at HYDRA had bothered to mention anything, and Bucky found himself deeply uncurious now—they offered something for his nerves. Decades of forced calm had disintegrated for a second at the thought of being drugged helpless through this. It was bad enough as it was, and it was a miracle that he managed to sound casual when he said, “Just the local’s fine.” Jesus. He didn’t want to fucking
be
here.
He let go of Steve’s hand as his heart sped up and then sped up again. Steve would be pissed off and make him take the sedative if he found out. He didn’t want to be drugged. He could feel his heart in his eyeballs. His teeth.
Everything was fragments. Details. The metallic glint of tools on a stainless steel tray. Blue drapes over sinister shapes. Conversations in English or Russian—it all blurred together after a while. The burn of tears as he struggled to keep his breathing calm. Don’t cry. Don’t move. Don’t beg.
Why is it doing that?
Something in him folded.
It wasn’t forceful, no resounding snap, no buckling collapse. Something just closed in him, quiet as a library, the rustle of an overused paperback.
Soft hands to shield the eyes from all the horrors that stare by day
—had he read that somewhere? He blinked slowly, his gaze falling on a still life across the room, the plum just a little too purple to be believed. Nobody was talking to him. Conversation faded to a hum. There was a dead pheasant on the table by the plum. A yellow butterfly perched on a grape. Steve was in the kitchen, saying something.
Bucky blinked again.
When had he gotten home?
“You want a sandwich?” He asked again, poking his head around the corner to smile at Bucky where he sat on the couch.
No. He still felt sick. His heart was starting to pick up again. The terror was catching back up.
“Maybe later,” he said, and the tension didn’t quite ruin his voice. The living room was too big. Steve was too loud. Fuck. Everything was—
Why is it doing that?
—it was all going to shit. “I’m gonna go lie down.”
Yeah. His bedroom. That would be better.
He grabbed the pillow from his bed and stared around, and hated how exposed he still felt. The wall pulled at him with a near-magnetic force. It was cool and sturdy against his back, and he inched along it. He could still smell the fucking gloves—
Oh, it really doesn’t like that, huh? Increase the
—it was on his skin, that smell, that smell, that
smell—
The closet swallowed him up, and Bucky pulled the door closed behind him. In the darkness, he pushed his face into the pillow and tried to smother the smell of the gloves and the sounds he made as he let go. His body was like a spooked horse; it needed to run itself out before it could calm down, and so he rode out the shivering and the crying and the—
can’t somebody shut it up?
—the fucking
sounds
until everything bled away. Until his body was too tired for more.
The closet smelled like mothballs. He breathed it in greedily. Mothballs because it wasn’t cedar. Cedar would have been nice, too. The panic gave way slowly to a low-grade dread over how he’d gotten here. He knew they’d tuned up the arm and that he and Steve had decided to walk instead of taking one of Stark’s cars, but none of it felt real. This wasn’t supposed to still be happening, this feeling like after the wipes when nothing could stick to his cooked brains and his body just did shit on autopilot.
It was over—
why isn’t it moving?
—it was fine. He’d gone, he’d gotten the stupid fucking arm looked at. Steve had wanted that, so he did it, and it was over now. It was over—
Oleinik, handle it
. It was over, and Steve wasn’t going to hate him or accuse him of hurting himself on purpose or say he couldn’t be here anymore.
Soldat? Oh, no, you’re alright, just… just rest.
He was so tired.
So goddamn tired.
The day had scoured him out, but he dragged himself out after a few hours when Steve called. The food was good, it always was. And as always, it turned to ash in his mouth.
On a mountainside in Austria that smelled of meadow grasses, rain poured like blood down the sides of a dark castle. The Winter Soldier waited for him in the shadows beyond the door, dark except for the menacing gleam of its metal arm and a ring of keys.
Bucky stalked past the creature—it was afraid of him, but he wasn’t afraid of it. It was the future that would never be his. It was the inhuman thing that they’d tried to fit into his human body. And yeah, Bucky still bore its fingerprints on his mind, and, yeah, when he woke up, its arm would be hanging from his shoulder. But there was going to be one winner here, and the boogeyman in his dreams wasn’t going to be it. The first door was locked, and the second, too. Beyond them, it was too dark to see. How many doors were in this place?
“Give me the key,” Bucky demanded, and the soldier… did it try to say something? Whatever it said, it was swallowed by the mask and Bucky’s racing pulse.
He didn’t care what it had to say.
“I said
give me
the
key
!” Bucky rounded on it, and the Soldier stiffened, ready to fight, fingers tight around their glittering prize. Metal in metal, a horrific squeak. Bucky’s reflection stared at him in the creature’s black-goggled stare.
Again, it tried to speak, but Bucky was over it. The Soldier stumbled when Bucky shoved it. He grabbed for the keys, and there was no resistance. The air smelled like grief. In the strange way of dreams, the door was in front of him and the key turned before Bucky thought to turn it. Crimson light poured through the door, pooling in the dark hall. A trailing smear of blood, or perhaps a trick of the light, trailed across the floor and through the door, and Bucky stepped into the crimson, buoyed by a rage beyond words.
White lights pinned him down. The table was cold under his back; no sheet to insulate. The familiar cloy of nitrile and bleach and the million unpleasant things that the bleach had cleaned up made the breath stop in Bucky’s lungs. His eyes darted to and fro. Some of these faces were familiar, but no names came to mind. He didn’t know this place.
Soldiers stood in pairs at the edges of the room, guns pointed at the floor, eyes pointed at Bucky. Of all the men in the room, they frightened Bucky the least. The ways they hurt him… They wouldn’t hurt him like the men in physicians’ coats and their scrub-clad assistants. The men spoke quietly, a discussion that slid over the surface of Bucky’s mind, details evading him as his head swarmed with bees.
It was fine. He got the gist. They wanted to improve his function.
There were new parts for the arm.
“It’s awake, Doctor.”
The words came from out of sight, and Bucky tried to crane his neck. The rabbiting thump of his heart bumped against his fingers and lips from the inside, something trying to escape his body. His tied-down body. And there was a certain uncanniness to the way cold saline traced an icy path up his vein.
“That’s fine,” the doctor waved the tech away.
A stool with wheels squeaked up behind him, and another question flew through the air. A voice that was soft enough, high enough, that Bucky knew the guy must get shit for it. “Here is alright?”
It was answered with grunts of approval from the doctors, and wheels squeaking, the heat of another body close enough to warm the top of Bucky’s head. The guy’s soap smelled like mint. A mask pressed over his face, and a hand rested on his shoulder, warm. People were talking about the process of installing the new parts for the arm, and Bucky’s mind couldn’t hold the details.
“It’ll metabolize it fast.”
“Monitoring will be constant; Masimov will watch the eyes—it’s the most reliable.”
“Won’t it make a sound?”
“It’s not reliable—”
He was starting to feel dizzy.
“Can somebody be ready to remove the restraints once the paralytic takes effect?”
“General says the restraints stay in place,” one of the soldiers called, “Once it stayed quiet until half-way through a surgery just to take the scalpel from the surgeon’s hand and slit his throat!”
The soldiers with their guns pointed at the floor all shared a laugh over that. The tension among the medical personnel was electric.
Bucky didn’t remember doing that, but he was proud. He’d fought. Even when he couldn’t win, even though he couldn’t remember, he’d fought.
“Make the installation, then bring it up just enough to test and back down for adjustments.” Somebody rattled the plan off again as if they hadn’t confirmed and reconfirmed enough. The chorus of agreement to what sounded suspiciously like the guess and check method except with surgery on his fucking
arm
sent his heart racing somehow faster.
He looked up at the tech seated at his head. Hair under a cap, mask hanging around his neck. He glanced down at Bucky, and when their eyes met at the bizarre angle, he gave a reassuring little smile, and for a moment, Bucky imagined the tech was somebody else. This man should have had freckles and that chipped front tooth—who? This was Masimov, Bucky reminded himself. Masimov, who would watch his eyes. Bucky tried to watch him back, even as a strange grief colored his rising panic.
“Alright, let’s begin.”
Somebody must have pushed something into the IV because Bucky’s body wasn’t shivering anymore, but from the cannula in his hand to his shoulder to his chest, the medicine burned. His muscles went slack. His lungs wouldn’t move, and he would have tapped the table or grabbed somebody, but his body wasn’t his, and something cold and hard was pushing his tongue down—and did the metal taste like blood, or did blood just taste like metal? The question was obliterated by pain that struck terror through him. It hurt deep in his throat—it was going to tear him. It was going to rip through him, and he would bleed out here in this cold, bright place with only Masimov, who wasn’t the right person—Masimov, who was supposed to be somebody else—touching his forehead with a soft palm.
It hurt too much, and he wanted to thrash and cry out and fight, but his body was his enemy. His body wouldn’t
listen
. His lungs were on fire and all these fucking people were talking over him and around him, and Masimov was holding the metal blade down his throat while something fucking
huge
shoved in and in and
in
and past where anything should be, he could feel it in his chest and the pressure of it and he was going to die here. It was pressing so hard, pushing him out from the inside, and Bucky could imagine the soft bits of him ripping and tearing, because on the inside he was just offal, just meat. How did he not understand until now that he was going to die here? They were going to rip his lungs out of him; that had to be it because why would they do this otherwise?
Air.
Something pushed air into his lungs, something was keeping him from dying, and Bucky’s eyes wouldn’t focus on Masimov’s face, but Masimov’s body was warm, and his chest pressed Bucky’s head. His hand came down on Bucky’s cheek and forehead and stroked and Bucky wished he could tell Masimov how much that fucking meant. How scared he was and how much of a difference it made to just have that hand, warm and dry, reminding him he was human. All he could smell was the overwhelming stench of nitrile.
Movement began. They were fiddling with drugs. “The paralytic is fast-acting, but with his metabolism, it’ll be gone quickly. Start timing… now.”
Masimov watched Bucky’s eyes, and a heartbeat after Bucky felt his throat constrict painfully against the tube, Masimov said, “There.” Somebody called out a time. Why the hell did Bucky need to be awake for this? He twitched against the restraints in weak protest, tried to cough. It was awful but survivable. That was the worst part of this, wasn’t it? That he would live to do it again.
And then somebody opened the service panel on the arm, and Bucky was denied the ability to so much as scream. He was trapped in a body that wouldn’t even try to protect him while they ripped the sensory bits of the arm out and refitted it, and his heart was racing so fast that he was going to black out, even with the tube breathing for him. He couldn’t fight back and he couldn’t fight back and he couldn’t fight, couldn’t fight, couldn’t—
There was a metal hand at his throat, and he was thrown across the room, hitting the wall hard enough to knock the wind from him. The Winter Soldier stood between him and his body on that operating table where Masimov-who-wasn’t, at his head, announced when the paralytic eased off enough to test the new components of the arm. The smell of nitrile clung to his nose, blue and cruel and sterile, and the Winter Soldier stalked up to Bucky.
Behind the soldier, they were taking his body apart, but it wasn’t
Bucky
on that table anymore, twitching just long enough to check whatever they were doing and then being forced again to stillness. Bucky stared in horror because he didn’t remember this, but he
did
. It had been a little while before Georgia. He’d had that handler with the limp and the problem with spicy foods.
The soldier advanced and grabbed Bucky, and for a moment, Bucky didn’t even want to fight it. At least he wasn’t
there
. At least he didn’t have to feel what they were doing to him. A hand covered his eyes, and Bucky thrashed, finally able to fight. He threw his head back, catching the Winter Soldier on the chin, and used the surprise to slam him into the wall. Red light illuminated the dark hall, and in the dimness, he saw his terrible reflection. His personal monster.
His monster, trying to take this from him.
“Let me go!”
Immediately, he was across the hall from the soldier, and it was probably just the adrenaline that made it seem like the creature was shaking. He ran back for the door, determined to see what the creature didn’t want him to see, abandoning it again in the dark.
The door burst open to a familiar cell. He remembered this. He remembered these men. This was a long time ago, before they’d hung the metal arm on him. He’d more or less recovered from the fall, from losing his arm, and they’d taken an interest in how his body wasn’t quite human anymore. How the serum had changed him. Bunch of marblemouthed Russians everywhere he looked, running experiments on POWs.
There was a kid in the cell facing his who was going to die.
His cough was awful and getting worse, and sometimes he was just so weak. Sometimes the pauses between his rattling breaths were so long, Bucky wasn’t sure there’d
be
another breath. He remembered what he was about to say before he opened his mouth to say it.
“He’s sick…
Sick
,” he coughed for emphasis, even though coughing made his shoulder and chest ache where they’d tried to clean up where his arm used to be.
“I understand,” the guard drawled, bored by the little game, accent so thick that Bucky hardly understood him.
“He needs medicine.”
“I need vacation,” the guard shrugged, “And yet we go on.”
He remembered this pause. The way he had weighed these words. This wasn’t anything new, so why was the soldier trying to hide this? He waited until the guard was close and spoke quietly, knowing how his offer would be taken.
“What do I need to do to get him medicine?”
If this guard had been Volkov—and where was Volkov today anyway?—he would have asked for English lessons, or for Bucky to correct his pronunciation, or to talk about movie stars and slang. Hell, if this had been Volkov, the kid wouldn’t have asked for anything at all. He’d have just figured out a way to slip the guys a little extra to eat, a little medicine, maybe a blanket. Not this guy, though. Bucky didn’t remember this guard’s name, or hardly a thing about him. Boring fucker.
The boring fucker’s hand went to his belt and he gave Bucky a meaningful look, and… He didn’t remember how this went. Did he blow the guy? He remembered doing that once or twice, quick blowjob for some asshole who liked feeling like a big man by putting Bucky on his knees. With a quick exchange of nods and a rattle of keys, the guard pushed into Bucky’s cell, and the guys were watching this. They could
see
.
“We can go somewhere—”
“You want or no?”
“C’mon,” he whispered, “Not here. I’ll make it good, I’ll… whatever you want, just… not here.”
“Take this off.” Hands, then, at his belt, and Bucky rushed to comply, but with one hand, it was slow going. Whatshisname-the-private was hardly even shivering anymore, and he was the only one who’d be able to see this, anyway. He wasn’t gonna fucking notice—and he sure as hell wasn’t going to
tell
anyone—and as long as Bucky didn’t make a whole production of it, nobody else would have to know.
Yeah. Okay.
He could do this.
The belt came off his waist, and the guy wrapped it around Bucky’s legs, just above the knee, and pushed him onto his thin little cot. Shitty thing didn’t have a blessed spring in it, so at least it was quiet. Bucky was quiet too, just shuffling where directed until he was on his belly and unsure what the hell the plan here was. The guard yanked Bucky’s trousers down, pulled himself out through his fly, and spit on his hand, and that was about all the overture there was.
Warmth on his back, bracketing his thighs, and it made his skin crawl, but it was fine. It was fine, wasn’t it? This was the price to not watch a kid die fifteen feet away from him over the next week. This was nothing.
When the guy slid a spit-slick dick between his thighs and started rutting away, Bucky wanted to fucking puke. Still… It was fine, wasn’t it? Whatshisname was gonna get medicine, and as far as torture went, this was pretty tame, if embarrassing. Yeah, he was probably gonna have some guy’s come stuck between his thighs until the little lab techs decided to hose him off, but who cared what those assholes thought, anyway, right? And nobody else had to know.
Behind him, the boring fucking guard made a frustrated noise even as his hips slapped against Bucky’s skin.
Yeah, well, it’s not
my
fault you wanted to do this,
Bucky didn’t say. Best to shut his smart mouth before he got himself in trouble. But it was taking for fucking ever. The insides of his thighs were wet with spit and precome and he was tired and irritated, and he finally snapped, “Fucking get on with it!
Jesus
, I don’t have all day.”
A string of curses, then, and the guard was adjusting himself. He wasn’t aiming for the space between Bucky’s legs anymore, spreading his ass like he was kneading fucking bread dough, spitting. Realization like lightning struck him, sent his body rigid, but he couldn’t buck the guy off and there he was, pressing and pressing against Bucky’s asshole which was
not a fucking entrance
, and he knew—he
knew
—he’d fucked up. This wasn’t… This wasn’t… The pressure kept increasing but there was no fucking
way
. It wasn’t possible. It was impossible—
Across the cell, pinned under a guard whose face Bucky couldn’t remember, legs bound by his own belt, fighting as best as he could with one arm and a body weakened by his recovery and the cold and too little food, Bucky screamed as something in him tore. Something just… gave out, and his pride gave out with it, and he was sobbing for it to stop, to take it out, heedless of the audience across the hall. He was begging—he was watching himself beg, and the pain and the fear weren’t his somehow. They didn’t touch him, but the Winter Soldier did. It had him again, pinned by its metal arm, its human hand rising to Bucky’s eyes again, trying to hide what had happened.
It was trying to hide this.
It didn’t want Bucky to know about this.
The lingering horror stopped Bucky from fighting as hard as he should have. The Winter Soldier’s arms shielded him. Its hand came up to cover his eyes again. It didn’t want him to see this.
Fuck.
Bucky
didn’t want to see this.
Too shaken to fight back anymore, Bucky shook in the soldier’s arms. The absence of those memories was… It was a fucking blessing. He didn’t try to pull away the hand covering his eyes. The red light of the hall chased Bucky’s heart into his throat when the Winter Soldier removed its hand, and Bucky saw again. The hall was dark and silent, and the soldier was dark and silent. Water dripped down the dark walls, almost as if the castle itself were bleeding.
Or crying.
The Winter Soldier stood in the red doorway, fighting to close the door again, keys casting dizzy light-shadows, scarlet against the darkness. Bucky grabbed the soldier by the back of its jacket and yanked it away from the door. It stumbled, its head hit the ground, and the goggles were gone. Its eyes were red in the light from the door.
“No,” he told it, and again it tried to speak—some mumble, drowned in its mask, and Bucky’s unwillingness to listen.
“Why are you hiding this?” He demanded, and something passed over the soldier’s face, an expression Bucky couldn’t read in its eyes, and—
The moon cut a cool wound into soft, enveloping darkness. His heart was a stone. Heavy and cold in his chest, pressing on his lungs, it thumped a sluggish march as Bucky stared at the slice of silver light across his bed. Without letting the light touch him, he eased out of bed. Steve slept with his bedroom door open, and Bucky padded in, mindful of the floorboard that always creaked, and watched him. Straw-haired and curled, holding a pillow to his chest. The image was soft. Bucky’s heart ached, heavy. It fractured.
Steve’s eyes opened, sleep-soft, and he grumbled something as Bucky climbed into his bed, into the warm little place Steve kept for him. Something was missing. Something was lost, and Bucky could feel its absence in his chest, in all the places his bones ought to be. Steve’s arm slid around him, and the warmth made him sick.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered once he was sure Steve was sleeping.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Jasnah had been snapping at people all day, and not just from the usual stress of her duties. Evening couldn't come soon enough.
Kaladin was back, and he was alive.
That was never a given, with everything going on. Usually she managed not to think about that too much, but at times like this, when she got repeated reports about how brutal the fighting in Emul had been, and even Lieutenant Teft saying "The boy nearly got himself killed," well, she was even more impatient than usual to see him again.
A few battalions had returned late last night, Kaladin with them. She'd only heard in the morning, and her day was packed full of meetings. He had his own responsibilities here after being away for the past couple of weeks. Now, though, it was evening, and she could finally get away. She'd even finished earlier than expected. He'd still be at the training grounds. She might as well go find him there.
The training room was crowded tonight, and all the active people made the room warm and humid. Metal clanged on metal and the air smelled of sweat, leather, and heavy cloth. Jasnah had to scan much of the room before spotting Kaladin, who was, as she expected, with Adolin. What she had not expected was that they would be...wrestling. Both only in tight, knee-length trousers.
She'd only seen Kaladin in less than a full uniform that once on the Shattered Plains. She couldn't deny she enjoyed seeing more of his skin, but that was equally mixed with anger and sorrow.
So many scars, especially for one so young.
Not just battle scars, either, like her cousin had. No, many Kaladin's scars were from the deliberate cruelty of someone who'd considered him property.
She watched them from the shadows. They circled each other, engaged in their bout. They hadn't seen her.
Kaladin went in for a tackle but Adolin deflected him, instead managing to get a grip on one of the taller man's arms. Kaladin twisted out of the grip but Adolin was already coming through for another bind, getting Kaladin's other arm behind him even as he tried to twist out of the way. They moved quickly, more roughly than in swordplay. That only made sense: this was far more animal than the distance and formality of swords or even spears.
Kaladin knocked Adolin's feet out from under him, sending them both to the ground with a slap. Adolin's expression was fierce and he managed to hold on through the fall. Kaladin grunted and his muscles strained as he tried to get out from the hold.
Oh my.
That was a sight.
In other circumstances, Adolin's grip likely would have held, but they were both glistening with sweat and Adolin's hand slipped from Kaladin's arm.
Kaladin pushed Adolin part way off him, but Adolin got a stronger, more slip-resistant grip. Kaladin's arm was locked, and, expression stormy, he tapped out.
Adolin let him up and explained where Kaladin had gone wrong and gave pointers. Jasnah walked up to them while Adolin was still talking, and when he finished, he turned to her. "You probably aren't going to join us for wrestling practice, are you?"
Jasnah smiled. "Tempting, but no."
Kaladin turned and finally caught sight of her, and his face broke into a broad smile that reached all the way to his eyes. "Hey."
She stepped up to him and rubbed the back of one finger on his arm. "Welcome back."
Adolin wiped his brow. "Going to join us for some kind of sparring, since you're here? We could switch to sword."
Kaladin leaned onto his knees, twisting and stretching his back. "Oh good, sword. Another thing I'm bad at and probably not going to use."
Adolin crossed his arms. "I am firmly convinced that wrestling is always useful, even if you have a weapon you can summon instantly. What if someone gets in close?"
"When they get close, I summon Syl as a dagger. I've taken out several Fused that way."
Adolin threw up his hands. "Fine. I can't make you practice if you don't want to."
Kaladin sighed. "No, I'm sure you're right. It is useful, weapon or no. I'll keep up with it. It's just frustrating because it feels like I'm bad at everything besides the spear."
"You're not bad at it. You're just inhumanly good with the spear, so everything else seems bad by comparison." Adolin turned to Jasnah. "Anyway, care to join us?"
She'd intended to pull Kaladin away as soon as she arrived, but sparring had become one of their forms of bonding. Even aside from that and improving her skill, the vigorous workout helped her stay calm and focused, which Heralds knew she needed today. Much as she wanted to take him somewhere private, for a while at least, weapons practice wouldn't be a bad way to spend time together.
She nodded to Adolin, and Kaladin seemed happy to go along either way, so they moved to the sandy part of the grounds. Adolin called for someone to bring an edge cover for his Blade, and Maya fell into his hand only a few seconds later.
Jasnah eyed him. "Is your heart beating that fast?"
Adolin grinned. "That was six heartbeats. She's been coming faster. I got her in four a couple of times during the battles in Emul."
"Remarkable. So she's still getting better? Does she improve with discrete events, or does it just seem to happen over time?"
Adolin pulled his lips to the side. "Well, if I'm in a tense fight, sometimes she'll come faster than she has before, but I'd say the average is definitely going down over time. She's been using more words, too. Wyndle tried talking with her but she seems scared of him. He's not sure what to make of that."
Jasnah nodded at Adolin in appreciation. "Well done, cousin. Yes, keep talking with her. I wonder if spending more time with her in Shadesmar might help as well."
Adolin grimaced. "I'd really rather not go back to Shadesmar."
Kaladin nodded vigorously. Jasnah frowned at him then looked back at Adolin. "You wouldn't be stuck there, or even all the way in."
Adolin turned his Blade in his fingers. "Hmm. Well, I'll give it try if you think it might help Maya."
The three of them sparred, switching off either in pairs with the third practicing forms, or both of them against Adolin, which was good practice coordinating attacks. Shallan showed up shortly after they started, so Adolin switched to working with her while Kaladin showed Jasnah some spear techniques and some useful weapon transitions he'd discovered.
In this, he was the teacher. These were skills at which he was probably among the best in Roshar, and he really was impressive. In the few sessions they'd managed to arrange of multiple Radiants sparring, he'd shown the best facility taking advantage of the adaptability of the living Shardweapons, also attested to by his effectiveness in real combat.
Sparring with him one-on-one was, in some ways, more intimate than something like having dinner. They'd developed a certain synchrony, an ability to read each other's movements. There was a level of nonverbal communication that she'd come to enjoy and appreciate very much. Plus, she did enjoy watching him, especially now that she could see more of him. The scars didn't bother her aesthetically - if anything, they added ruggedness. And he moved with such striking grace.
She'd long since convinced him not to hold back when sparring with her, which she mildly regretted when he got in a few good hits on her. Since it was just the two of them, they weren't holding off using Stormlight, so the bruises retreated almost immediately. He was resourceful in choosing and adapting the skills for her for use both with and without Plate. Even as queen of Alethkar, she was lucky to have this man giving her so much one-on-one instruction.
At the end of the session, they sat down next to each other in an out of the way corner at the edge of the training field, drinking from waterskins. After all that exertion, he radiated heat. She could feel it even though they weren't touching.
"Long hair is a disadvantage wrestling, even if the rules say not to pull on it," Kaladin said. "Oh, and I finally tried that stuff you gave me for my hair. It's oddly smooth and shiny afterward. Harder to tie out of the way. Too slippery. It's weird."
She laughed softly, reaching up to run her fingers through her hair. "It is softer and doesn't seem as tangled now, so I have to say I find it an improvement." She ran her fingers through his hair several more times, and he closed his eyes. "Why do you keep your hair long? I'm not complaining, by the way; it looks good on you."
He tensed under her hand. So many things brought up painful memories for him. "I went through a time of not caring enough to cut it, or shave, for that matter. Even when it seemed worth shaving again, by then I suppose I'd gotten to like having my hair longer."
She continued running her fingers through his hair, and he relaxed again. He'd taken his shoes off to wrestle and hadn't put them back on for sword practice. The way he was sitting with his ankles crossed, she could see the sole of one foot. Not only was it heavily callused, it had even worse scars than his back.
"What?"
She raised an eyebrow at him.
"What's bothering you?"
She pointed toward his feet. "Should I ask what all those scars are from?"
He sighed. "Some are from just not having shoes, probably a lot from my first bridge run. Some are from getting my feet caned or whipped after trying to escape."
She shuddered, feeling sick and angry at the thought, but she felt compelled to ask further. "Those scars on top of your shoulders are from carrying bridges too, aren't they?"
*
Kaladin nodded, mind back on the Plains. "Gaz didn't bother getting me shoes or a vest for my first bridge run. He figured I would get killed right away so it didn't matter if my feet and shoulders got destroyed."
"Shallan said Gaz was afraid of me. I wouldn't actually hurt him over past offenses, especially since he seems better behaved these days, but...I am even more tempted now than I was."
"No, you shouldn't actually do anything to him." He shrugged. "Just another of the people who've repeatedly tried to get me killed."
It felt surprisingly good to put his years of pent up bitterness into words. In any other circumstances, he would have felt like he was just griping or whining, but he felt like Jasnah wanted to understand him. It always hurt at the time to tell her things like this--hurt both of them, usually--but after each, he'd feel just a little more at peace.
"I seem to be hitting a lot of tender spots today, don't I?"
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "That's probably easier when I have so many scars showing."
"You do have quite a lot. It reminds me how angry I am about everything that's been done to you." She traced a finger along a long straight scar on his back.
He turned his head far to one side, trying to look where her hand touched him. "I'm not even sure what scars I have on my back."
"You haven't bothered looking at them in mirrors?"
"Not really. All I've got is a small shaving mirror."
She pressed her lips together. "Come to my rooms. I have a couple of large mirrors and a hand mirror. That will let you get a good look."
"I'm not sure how I feel about examining my own scars, but I'll take a thin excuse to come to your rooms." He grinned at her. Sparring with her was fun, but he had been hoping to get some time alone with her.
After quickly toweling off, he put his shirt and jacket back on for the walk to her rooms. It was one thing to be shirtless for wrestling practice, and even to leave it off to continue with swords in a warm practice room, but walking through the halls like that would be downright slovenly.
Jasnah took his elbow in hers as they left the training ground. "My uncle has been saying what a natural strategist you are."
He bowed his head and his cheeks grew warm. "He is the best man to learn that from."
"He talked about giving you a title to match, perhaps lieutenant general or major general, which he could do now that you're officially a lighteyes of the fourth dahn."
Kaladin grimaced, but before he could say anything, Jasnah went on, "I told him I doubt there's a title higher than Captain of the Windrunners, either to you or most others, but the offer is open, and you two should discuss whether there's any practical reason to do so."
He nodded. "I don't really like the idea of having a title that's dependent on eye color, but I'll do what's needed to reflect the command structure."
"I had no doubt you would." She squeezed his elbow. "And I'm sorry I can't tear down all the rules around eye color."
He smiled at her. "I know you can't."
They reached Jasnah's rooms and she closed the door behind them. Getting dressed again at the training grounds meant he had to take his jacket and shirt back off when he got here, if the point really was for him to look at his back. Well, he
was
curious.
He did it quickly, not making eye contact, folding and draping both layers over the back of a chair. Jasnah led him to a broad full length mirror taller than he was, then gave him a face-sized mirror with a handle. At first he faced the large mirror and tried to hold the hand mirror behind him, but she turned him around and got everything positioned so he had a good view of all of his back at once.
"Is it like you expected?" she asked softly.
He narrowed his eyes. "It's both better and worse." Most of the scars had faded match the color of his skin or lighter, and nothing had the distinctness of the brands on his forehead, but there was quite a lot. He reached a hand around to that one rib that had a bit too much of a bend in it. "This rib got broken and it never got a chance to heal right." He remembered it breaking, and he could feel with his hands that it stuck out, but the protrusion was obvious with the light on him at an angle like it was.
She stroked his arm. " 'Got broken'? Should I ask?"
"Kicked after saying I killed a Shardbearer. That was before I learned not to mention that."
She frowned. "What about this?" She touched a conspicuous star-shaped white scar over his shoulder blade.
"Oh, that was just me not getting out of the way of a spear in time in one of my first battles in Amaram's army. Seems mundane by comparison."
"I would love to ask you about each one, but I don't want to dredge up too many painful memories."
"It's all right. I'm not sure I could even tell you where they all came from, but if you want to ask, go ahead."
She traced her fingers along the long straight lines that ran diagonally across the full length of his back. They were one of the most obvious features. The question was obvious in her eyes.
"Those are from being whipped. I remember that incident well. It was after another of my many escape attempts. I had to sleep on my stomach for over a week."
The skin around her eyes tightened. "I feel guilty getting more upset than you seem over this. You had to live through it, and I'm only hearing about it."
"I've had time to get used to it. And besides, I'm upset hearing about bad things that have happened to you too."
She laid a hand on his shoulder. "I know nothing really makes up for it, but it does make me want to make everything soft and plush and comfortable for you now."
He smiled at her with one side of his mouth. "You spoil me in so many ways."
"Who's spoiling whom? You take me out flying all the time." She smiled back at him.
He turned toward her, setting the hand mirror on her vanity. "I am afraid of getting used to your comfortable life. I worked hard to be able to sleep soundly on rocky ground in the rain."
She grimaced.
"That was supposed to be a joke."
"As you so insightfully pointed out, it's only a joke if we can both laugh at it." Still looking at his scars, she she ran her fingers up his back and across to his shoulder. Her eyes continued up to meet his. "I missed you. It felt like you were away for ages."
"I missed you too. It did feel like far too long." He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and the silk of her dress rippled cool and smooth against his skin. She slid her hands up behind his neck and pulled him into a kiss. He gave himself over to her lips, relishing being close to her again.
To the extent that one kiss could make up for two weeks apart, they tried.
Finally, she pulled out of the kiss. "So, do you want to give me your take on what happened in Emul?"
He gave her as much detail as he could remember. It was lovely, being back and standing like this, holding her, talking about times he'd been afraid or felt triumphant or worried. He lived through it with Bridge Four, but he didn't talk with them about his feelings like he did with Jasnah.
Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, and her violet eyes shone. "Are you holding back for fear of worrying me?"
He pressed his lips together. "Maybe a little."
"Was it as bad as Thaylen Field, fighting all those Fused and then Amaram?"
He rocked his head side to side. "About that bad."
She rubbed her palm on his back. "How close did you come to getting killed?"
"Very nearly," he said, barely above a whisper.
"I can't help worrying about you when you're away, especially not when I know there's so much reason to worry." She pulled him tighter and leaned her head on his chest. "Why did the world have to go and end right when I found someone I care so much about?"
He nuzzled into her hair. "It's not over yet."
"I know, but..."
"Yeah. I know."
She drew in a deep breath. "I should get some sleep."
He nodded, and they kissed again. He put his uniform back on and gave her one last squeeze, and they said their good nights.
Kaladin walked back toward his rooms, fists clenched. Syl streaked in from a corridor leading outside, transforming from a ribbon into a young woman in front of him. "You have a
lot
of feelings going on."
"Yeah."
"But things are good between you and her, right?"
"Yes."
"So why the emotionspren feast?"
"I just..." He ran a hand through his hair. "Even if something is good, it can still be overwhelming."
"Humans are so complicated."
"Tell me about it."
"Well--"
"I didn't mean that literally."
Syl stuck her tongue out at him, then sat on his shoulder.
He could have cut out to a balcony and taken a shortcut to the barracks, but he felt like walking. He was wound up and he needed to think.
He was coming to appreciate Jasnah in a different way. He'd known she was strong, willful, and bent on doing the best she could for the world, but there was so much more nuance to her than that, and so much more compassion beneath her hard shell. He had worried, of course, about what dynamic they might develop, based on social class or age or her sheer forcefulness, but none of those worries were coming to pass. He didn't have to be bowed or pushed down by her strength; he could borrow it. That wasn't something he'd imagined having. It felt like it filled a crack in him.
Syl had a point. Why
was
he so wound up? Things were good. He should be happy.
Part of it was that he had, in fact, nearly died in Emul. Brushes with death had a way of bringing things into stark focus, particularly what was important. He'd always had the idea that it took a long time--years--for a good relationship to develop. It had only been a few months since he and Jasnah had started courting, yet he realized he would break himself to keep from spoiling what they had.
It terrified him.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The next morning, Natsu returned home to find Happy just finishing with a late breakfast.
"Welcome home," the Exceed called out. "Did dinner go well?"
Natsu felt light and wonderful. He smiled to himself as he thought about their romantic evening. "Yeah, it was awesome."
"What'd you eat?"
Natsu opened the refrigerator and pulled out a juice. "Gray cooked spaghetti."
Happy frowned. Not even fish? What sort of date didn't involve fish? "Spaghetti? Well that's kinda boring."
"He cooked it himself." Natsu blushed as he looked down at the bottle of juice. "It was really sweet of him."
"Awww," Happy soughed. He had a devious kitty grin. "And you stayed the night?"
Natsu shrugged guiltily. "Well, yeah," he muttered.
"Did you two…?" Happy gave a crude hand gesture.
"Wha-…? Happy! Where did you learn that?"
"From Loke."
"How many times have I told you not to hang around that playboy?"
"He's not a playboy; he's a grownup cat. So, did you?"
Natsu was still shocked Happy had asked something like that, let alone that hand gesture. "We … um … no. We didn't do
that.
"
"Oh. You're being very gentle with Gray."
Natsu felt fire in his cheeks and muttered, "It's not quite like that."
"Do you wanna …
you know
… with Gray?"
Natsu twisted the juice bottle bashfully in his hands. "Well, yeah," he mumbled. "I just wasn't ready last night."
Happy knew Natsu did not have much experience, and he assumed his best friend was merely a nervous virgin worried about his first time. "Was he ready?"
Natsu laughed wryly. "Yeah, he definitely was." He chugged back the juice.
Happy realized a lot more than Natsu was willing to say … and misunderstood a lot that Natsu did not feel like explaining. "You said he's
done it
before with a guy, right?"
"Yeah, he has," Natsu grumbled.
Two other men before him: one was a serious boyfriend who dumped Gray because of all the long missions; the other was a nameless one-night-stand who topped Gray. Natsu felt jealous of these two mysterious past men. No matter how much Gray insisted that he had never felt as open and comfortable with a partner as he did with Natsu, the Dragon Slayer still could not help but realize that he could not give to Gray what any normal partner could, and it made him feel inferior whenever he thought about Gray's vast experience.
"Are you okay with that?" Happy asked worriedly.
"It's in the past. It's fine."
Happy tilted his head and looked up at Natsu's face. "It doesn't look like it's fine to me."
"It is, really," he insisted, but Natsu knew that Happy was way more observant than he let on. It was almost impossible to hide things from him. "I mean, yeah, it kinda …
upsets
me once in a while. I'm not his first, but expectations like being one another's firsts are pretty silly. If I hold a grudge against him for something he did in the past that has nothing to do with us, that's pretty crappy, and it's not fair to Gray."
Happy was honestly impressed with an answer like that. "That's really mature of you, Natsu."
Happy tried to imagine if it was him and Carla, if he found out Carla had slept around, yet here he had never even had a kiss … well, besides that time Lucy held him up to block Natsu from kissing her. Happy had decided quite firmly,
that didn't count!
It was Lucy's fault, and a first kiss did not count unless the person gave it willingly. What he and Natsu did was just lips touching each other and no more weird than elbows touching, or foreheads touching.
Anyway, if Carla had slept around, would he be able to forgive her? Maybe Natsu was right, and what happened in the past should not be held against that person. Maybe the guy Gray had sex with in the past was someone he really loved, someone he thought would last forever, and so he gave over heart, soul, and body to that person, only to lose that loved one. (Happy really had no clue about Gray's indiscriminate past, but his daydreams were adorably idealistic.)
"You two are really good together," he declared. "You're always fighting, but … opposites attract, as they say. You two really look cute as a couple." Happy half covered his mouth with his paw. "So, is he a
tsundere
?"
Natsu laughed at the conspiratorial question. "Actually, yeah, he kinda is."
"I knew it!" Happy shouted triumphantly. "So, are you guys gonna tell the guild?"
"We want to."
"You really should."
"I know," he sighed. "It's just a bad time. Gray just got over that illness, so people would be worried."
"Oh. I guess so. When are you gonna tell them?"
"Soon."
"Make it really soon."
Natsu arched an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Um … uh …
nothing!
" he cried out guiltily.
"Happy…" Natsu said sternly.
"Nothing! But, you know, if you two happen to come out to the guild on
Wednesday
, that would be a really good time."
"Wednesday? Why? What's happening on Wednesday?"
"Wednesdays are … um …
lucky
. Yeah, they're lucky days. You know, like the saying: Wednesday wedding day."
"Wednesday wedding
what
?"
Happy tried to smile innocently, but he crumbled under the weight of the secret. "There's a betting pool going on in the guild," he confessed with drooping ears.
"
What?
" Natsu screamed.
"Almost everyone has figured it out, Natsu."
"Wha- … bu- … H-How?" he stammered in shock.
"Mostly from yesterday. Gray asked you out on a date."
"It was just food. He was saying thank you."
Happy stared hard at him. "Natsu, we're not that dumb."
He cringed down as he realized their
acting
probably was rather obvious.
"Lucy figured it out, and she told Levy. Cana overheard, and before dinner started everyone was taking bets. Is … is that bad?" he asked worriedly.
"N-No," Natsu said, still flustered. "But … um … how was everyone reacting?"
Happy tapped his chin. "Well, Erza seemed like she already knew, Lucy said she wanted to see you two kiss, Levy agreed with her and both of them started to act all weird and girlie, Juvia insisted they were all insane and stormed out, Cana started up a betting board, and Mira said that you two would come out on the weekend, and Lucy said next Sunday, and I said you'd come out this Wednesday, so if you two tell everyone on Wednesday, then I win."
Natsu face-palmed. "Happyyyyyy!"
The Exceed gave a huge shrug. "I'm just saying."
Natsu shook his head and patted the Exceed with a warm smile. "I swear, we're such good friends, sometimes it's like you can read my mind."
Happy blinked in confusion. "Huh?"
"We had already planned to tell everyone on Wednesday."
Happy grinned excitedly. "You and Gray already planned that?"
"Yeah. It'll give us some time between him getting well and letting everyone know."
"Good, then I'm not cheating."
Natsu chuckled at his justification, but doubts slipped into his mind. He dropped his gaze and muttered, "That's what we planned, at least. We're still not sure."
"Well, you should!" Happy cheered, glad to think that he would win the betting pool without even cheating. However, he saw the worries on Natsu's face. Cautiously, he asked, "Do you not wanna tell everyone?"
Natsu scoffed softly. "Well, if they've already figured it out, there's no point hiding it. Just … I guess I'm worried."
Happy pouted at his hesitancy. It was not like Natsu at all. "Are you worried how they'll react? Is it because you're both guys? It's not that big of a deal, really."
Natsu gave a reluctant smile. "I'm glad you think so. I'm also worried about Juvia."
Happy chimed in, "Well, you see, that's why I put my bet on Wednesday. I heard Juvia tell Mira that she's leaving on a mission on Tuesday and won't be back until Friday, so I thought you could tell the guild when she's gone, and she might come home early because she's really strong, so you don't want to chance that and tell people on Thursday, but she might not leave until late Tuesday, so you don't want to tell people then, so Wednesday would be the perfect day. That's what I thought, anyway."
Natsu had to admit, "Having Juvia away would make things easier. That lady is going to freak out."
"I'll protect you," Happy promised.
"She'll use water. You hate water."
"Oh yeah. I could fly you away, though. Just you. I can't carry Gray also, but I don't think Juvia would hurt Gray no matter what he did."
"Nah, it should be fine. It's not like she'd
kill
me." Then he muttered under his breath, "Hopefully not."
"She wouldn't go that far. Hey, since we don't have anything planned, how about we do something with Gray? Like a group thing, with Lucy and Erza and Wendy and Carla, not a mission necessarily, but just helping people around town. We haven't done that in a while, and it's always fun."
Something fun, huh? Natsu had to admit, with his focus on Gray, he had lost touch with Lucy and Erza. He wondered what the girls were up to, and he had not seen Wendy around in some time. A normal outing with the team sounded pretty good.
"Tell ya what! Let's go to the guild and see if there are any fliers left for missions in Magnolia."
"Aye, sir!" Happy cheered, and they left together for the walk into town.
When Natsu and Happy entered the guild, the first thing Natsu noticed was a familiar white coat and black turtleneck. He was surprised Gray was still wearing his clothes, but then Natsu realized he had scratched and marked the ice wizard the previous night. His hand went up to his scarf, right over where he knew he still had a dark pink oval. They had reclaimed one another last night, even if all Natsu did was touch Gray and kiss him a bit.
Suddenly, Natsu felt bashful. Happy said the guild was slowly figuring out that there was something happening between them. He knew that was their plan, to ease the guild into the idea of them being a couple, so he decided to play up to how Gray had been acting the previous day. He walked up to the ice wizard.
"Hey, Gray," he called out.
The ice wizard jolted at his voice, and Natsu saw his cheeks flush briefly. Mira stood a little to the side wiping glasses, but Natsu heard her giggle. Indeed, Mira probably had figure it out long ago. She was sharp on things like that.
"Um, thanks for dinner," Natsu said awkwardly.
"Oh! Yeah, um … not a problem."
"You cook really good," Natsu said with a flirtatious smiled.
Mira swooped right in. "Oooh? Gray cooked for you, huh?"
"Yeah," Natsu cried out, grinning broadly. "He made spaghetti."
Mira looked slightly disappointed. "Spaghetti? Isn't that rather … um … simple?"
"Hey!" Gray said defensively. "I handmade the meatballs."
Natsu nodded. "Yeah, and they were tasty balls."
Mira's eyes went huge, Gray stared at him in horror, and too late, Natsu realized what he said.
"I … I mean
meatballs.
He made good … good meatballs. Shit," he muttered under his breath.
Gray dropped his voice and growled. "Natsu!"
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "It just came out wrong."
Natsu moved aside before he said anything else stupid. That was when he saw Lucy at a table, beckoning him over. He decided to sit by her to escape from his embarrassment.
"Hey Lucy," he said cheerfully, straddling a chair and looking at her journal. "Writing anything good?"
"Oh, not much, just ideas. Hey, I've got a question."
"Shoot!" he said eagerly.
He thought it would be something about money, maybe asking for help with a mission. Instead, Lucy covered half her mouth and spoke quietly with eyes shifting around. "Are you and Gray maybe slowly becoming a couple?"
His eyes widened in shock. Was Happy right and everyone knew? He could not tell her yet, though. He and Gray had planned this already. The timing had to be right. Too soon after Gray's sickness, and their friends would worry. Too late, and they looked like they were hiding a secret. But if everyone already knew their secret, what then?
"We're just hanging out. We're trying to
not
be at each other's throats. Gray is pretty cool when he's not being a perverted stripper."
Lucy smirked. "You think Gray is
cool
, huh?"
"Well, he is … for a guy who's normally an asshole."
She giggled, and Natsu was unsure why. Lucy dropped her voice again. "You probably wanna ask him out, right?"
"Wh-What?" he cried in shock.
"It's obvious, Natsu. He asked you on a date yesterday, right?"
Natsu turned his head aside stubbornly. "It was just food." He did not want to tell Lucy that he had already asked Gray out.
"If you ask him out, maaaaaybe tell the guild on
Sunday
." She winked at Natsu in the way she often did when trying to sweet-talk shop owners into giving her a cheap deal.
"Sun- …
What?
" he shouted. Was she also trying to influence her bet?
Lucy gave a wide, innocent shrug. "I'm just saying. Weekends are good for confessions. Go on a date Saturday, ask him out, and then tell everyone on Sunday."
"I can't believe this," he muttered. "Besides, why do you think I'd be the one to ask him out? It was Gray who offered me food yesterday."
"You seem more … you know." She blushed slightly and shrugged.
"More what? I don't get it."
"More … well … aggressive. If one of you is going to be … um …
in charge
, then my guess is it'd be you."
Natsu's mouth dropped. First, Happy assumed Natsu was the
seme
in their relationship, now Lucy seemed to feel the same way. It made Natsu even more ashamed that his issues with sex actually put
him
as the receiver.
Especially after what Gray said last night and with how Natsu had reacted in the bathroom, could it be that if he did not have issues like that, Natsu would be a natural
seme
? Would Gray even want that? If Natsu overcame his issues and felt more comfortable as a
seme
than as an
uke
, would Gray not be interested in that sort of relationship?
Irritated by these questions, Natsu snapped, "
If
I ask him out, I'll do it when
I'm
ready."
He stood up and marched to the mission board. He was not even really reading the fliers. His ears were picking up bits of conversations all through the guild, and he wondered how many were actually discussing him.
"It seems like those two…"
"… but yesterday really surprised me."
"It would be weird if it's true."
"Where do you think they went?"
"Does Cana still have
that thing
?"
"Never thought
that
would happen."
"I don't envy them. When Juvia finds out…"
He wished he could tune out all the voices around him.
Amidst the cacophony, he heard familiar footsteps drawing closer and felt a chill like an approaching winter storm.
"Hey flame-brain! What's wrong with you, spacing out like that?"
"Nothing!" Natsu snapped, not turning around to look at him.
Gray came up cautiously, worried about the anger in Natsu's voice. "Hey," he whispered. Gray touched Natsu's shoulder, but the Dragon Slayer pulled away. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly.
Natsu glanced around. Gajeel and Laxus were not there, and Wendy was far across the room. No one else had hearing as acute as a Dragon Slayer. He dropped his voice low enough so nobody could hear. "Have you heard about the betting pool?"
"Which?"
"About us. Everyone knows, Gray."
Gray was stunned for only a few seconds. They had wanted to ease everyone into the idea, not have the whole guild start betting on them. "Let's just tell them."
"Can we wait until Wednesday?"
"Why Wednesday?"
"Happy bet on Wednesday?"
"
Wh-What?
"
"I don't know what he bet, but it would make him happy."
"Oh," Gray muttered. "I owe it to Happy, I guess. Wednesday, huh?"
"Yeah," Natsu laughed nervously.
Suddenly, it seemed so much more real. They were going to come out as a couple. Everyone would know he was gay. It would be an uproar, even if most of the guild had their suspicions already.
Sorcerer Magazine
's tabloid section would definitely be buzzing about them. He could imagine it already.
EXTRA: Fire and Ice: Opposites Attract!
Gray brushed his fingers against Natsu's arm. "Are you nervous?"
"Shut up," he snapped. "I've been wanting to tell them, but when I realize we're really gonna do it, it's … scary."
"It scares me too," Gray admitted. "But we've got each other."
Natsu gazed up into Gray's eyes, and he felt confidence returning to his heart. "Right! We've got each other's back, like always. If anyone says anything bad, I'll burn them!"
"I'll freeze them first." Gray gazed up and down Natsu's body. "How about we tickle their imagination and go on another date?"
"Oh! Happy wanted to go on a mission."
Gray felt stung with disappointment. "A mission?"
"A small one. I guess mostly to take my mind off of things."
"Oh. Yeah, makes sense. Any good ones?" Gray stood beside Natsu and scanned the mission board.
Natsu tried to read the board, but the nearness of the ice wizard distracted him too much. "You're too close."
"I'm reading the board, idiot."
"I can feel your icy skin."
"I'm not even touching you."
"It's radiating off, and it's cold."
"Che! Fine!" Gray took a wide step to the side. "How's that?"
Natsu looked at the gap between them. "Now you're too far."
"Idiot! Make up your mind. If you don't like it, get as close to me as you want. I'm not moving again."
Natsu pouted, but the distance annoyed him. Now he could not feel that coolness at all. Natsu slowly shifted to the side until his arm was right up against Gray.
"Now you're closer than you were at first," Gray pointed out.
"This is what I want," he mumbled with flushed cheeks. "See anything good?"
Gray glanced down at his pink hair, then back up at the posters. "Not on the mission board."
Natsu looked up, realizing the unsaid words. Nothing good on the board, but something
good
beside him. "Hey, Gray," he whispered. "How about we skip the mission … and go to your place?"
Gray gulped hard to keep his happiness from showing too much. "Are you sure?"
Natsu glanced around again, but there were not many people around this side of the guild hall. He leaned up into Gray's ear. "I
need
it. I need you."
Gray felt a rushing surge straight down to his groin. That hungry moan was something he dared not ignore. "Tell Happy, and meet me there."
"Yeah," he said breathlessly.
Gray turned and stomped away, but one glance down told Natsu that the hands in Gray's pockets were not just him acting cool. He was trying to hide the fact that he had gotten hard. He stood facing the board for another minute until he could calm himself. Then he walked over to where Happy was drinking a shake.
"Hey, Happy, um … I might be gone again tonight."
Happy had a devious smile. "Oooh? You and Gray again?"
Natsu glanced around with embarrassment, but only Mira was close enough to hear, and she already had one of her devilish smiles. "Uh, yeah," he mumbled.
Happy giggled softly. "Are you two gonna…?"
"Yeah," Natsu answered before he had to hear his best friend actually say it.
That apparently surprised Happy. "Oh." He blinked in shock for a moment. Then Happy leaned over, and Natsu tilted his head down to listen. "Be easy on him."
"Happy!"
"I won't say anything," he promised. "Oh, and Natsu? Um, lean down." The Dragon Slayer leaned over again so Happy could whisper. The Exceed cupped his hands around his mouth and said as softly as he could, "Do you have protection?"
Natsu leaned up in astonishment. "Happy!" However, the Exceed looked dead serious. Natsu realized he had only the supplies Gray kept, but he knew the ice wizard had plenty of
those things
lying around. "Yeah, I do," he muttered.
"Okay!" Happy said cheerfully. "Have fun."
Natsu knew his cheeks were crimson. "Y-Yeah, thanks. Sorry about skipping on the mission."
"No, no, no!" Happy grinned. "Go on. Have fun. Make him happy." Natsu nodded awkwardly and hurried off. Happy giggled to himself. "Such a cute couple!"
Natsu rushed out before too many saw his face. If the guild had their suspicions, they would probably be in an uproar if they saw
any
of the exchanges just now. He ran through the streets and finally caught up to Gray making his way through the marketplace.
"Hey! Wait up, ice-stripper."
"What do you want?" snapped Gray.
Natsu jolted back. Sure, that was Gray's normal reply, but it sounded more harsh than it used to in the past. He had gotten used to hearing Gray's softer words. "I wanted to walk with you."
"Fine." They walked together through the crowd. "Did you tell Happy?"
"Yeah." Natsu laughed as he thought about his best friend. "He asked if I had a condom."
Gray sputtered out a laugh. "Oh God!" He covered his mouth to not laugh so loudly in public. "That cat of yours is too mature."
"He's just looking out for me." Natsu glanced over and said softly, "You … um … you don't have to use one, though."
Gray jolted with wide eyes. "What? You mean…" His voice dropped. "No condom?"
"You always did, which is good. I wasn't sick because you were that careful with me. Now I know you're clean, so … you don't have to this time."
Gray snapped, "Can we not talk about it here?"
Natsu suddenly realized they were in a busy part of the marketplace. "Oh crap. Sorry."
Gray paused, and Natsu realized he was using the hands in his pockets to adjust himself. "Dammit, you're making me…" He did not say more, but he did not need to. Natsu could smell it.
"Sorry! I'm really sorry. I'm just … just letting you know."
Gray gulped hard. "I'll take that into consideration. Would you be okay? With that? Not using one?"
Natsu had thought about it a lot lately, and he felt confident. "Yeah. I … I want it. I wanna feel how it's like. We've never done that. Maybe that will help me realize it's okay to come inside you too. I don't know, but I want to try it."
Gray stopped in his tracks, and Natsu saw him lean over slightly. The bulge in his trousers was too noticeable now. Gray looked like merely walking was painful.
"I'm sorry. I'll stop talking."
"No, just … dammit! Come over here."
Gray grabbed Natsu's arm and yanked him between carts of fresh fruits and busy shoppers. They slipped out of the market and to some tall brick buildings. Gray yanked Natsu between two buildings and into an alley. Halfway in, right where it was darkest, Gray slammed Natsu against the bricks and kissed him fiercely. Natsu moaned at the taste that invaded his mouth. Then suddenly a cold hand palmed him through his pants, and Natsu shivered at the urgent touch.
"I thought you said …
mmmph
… you don't …
nngh
… want it in alleyways."
"I don't," Gray sneered, and he palmed Natsu harder. His tongue thrust in, savoring the spicy taste of that mouth. "God, your talking is just…" He thrust his hips up tight against Natsu. "…too much for me!"
Gray slowly humped up against Natsu, easing the ache in his pants, wanting this fiery body right now. The badly concealed moans urged him on, but Gray knew he had to back off. He reluctantly pulled his hips away and rested his head on Natsu's chest.
"Gray…" Natsu whimpered.
"Not here. Dammit, not here." He panted heavily as he forced his body to regain control. "I just want to hide here until I can calm down."
Natsu swallowed the saliva that had built up in his mouth. He could smell intense arousal wafting all around Gray's body. "Do you wanna try just a little here?" Gray looked up with shock widening his eyes. "Just me touching you. I can smell if anyone is approaching."
"Wha-…? No!" This time he pulled completely back and rested his shoulders against the opposite wall. "Not in an alleyway."
"Why?"
Gray sneered and looked away with a soft curse muttering under his breath. "I got caught once in an alley."
The embarrassment in Gray's pale cheeks made Natsu laugh loudly, and Gray glared in annoyance. "Are you serious?"
Gray just muttered something.
"What happened? Were you arrested? I never heard about this in the guild."
"I made sure the guild never found out. I got a fine for public indecency, paid it, and no one else had to know. Still, actually getting caught … it was the most humiliating moment of my life. I don't want that to ever happen again."
"Got it. No alleys." Still, Natsu saw that Gray looked painfully aroused. "Hey, calm down."
"I'm
trying
," he shouted in sexual frustration.
"Gray, look at me. Deep breath in. Let it out slowly." Natsu watched as Gray breathed in a meditative way. "Don't focus down there. Focus on your breathing. Feel your lungs, and focus on your air."
Gray followed the gentle instructions, and he soon felt himself loosening up. "Is this how you do it?"
Natsu flinched back. He had not realized that he was guiding Gray through the same techniques he used to calm himself so he did not have to resort to masturbating. "I … y-yeah."
Gray took a few steps back across the narrow alley and caressed Natsu's face. "Sorry. That was a bad thing to ask."
"No, it's … it's fine."
Natsu gulped hard. He had learned how to focus elsewhere with
that man
, how to ignore the touches and divert his thoughts to other sensations. It was natural now to Natsu, but when he stopped and realized
how
he learned this,
why
he preferred to ignore his arousal,
what
made him nauseous at the idea of masturbating … it made him tremble.
"Thanks." Gray kissed Natsu on the cheek.
The Dragon Slayer was yanked out of his thoughts. "Huh?"
"I'm feeling better. Let's go."
They left the alley and did not speak again through the rest of the walk.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
"Why is it so cold?" Havana asked, sitting on his cot.
Morpheus had just taken him through the the Construct for the first time. He had awoken from it shaken and had run off to the room designated as his. Neo had been designated to go after him.
"Like Morpheus said, the sun was blocked. We moved underground to be closer to the core but, in order to free people, we have to go to the surface."
"The pods."
"Exactly. They're above ground ergo, we must go above ground. When we get to Zion, it will be warmer."
"When will that be?"
"A week, maybe. The boy you saw next to you, when you first woke up, needs to wake up himself."
"Why did he have all the needles in him?"
"Stimulate muscles and nerve endings. It will help him heal faster. We did the same to you."
"Damn."
Neo smiled softly. "Tell me about it."
"And I can't go back."
"Would you really want to? Knowing what the world is? And what it isn't?"
"Yeah. No. No. I don't know." Havana leaned back against the metal wall, wincing at the cold. "I think I might hurl."
"I did first time I went into the Construct."
"Yeah?"
That seemed to lift the boy's spirits.
"It's not an easy transition. I know I dealt with it horribly but this place grows on you. And Zion's amazing."
Havana nodded. "The little kid I saw. She's like me?"
"We pulled her out of the Matrix about a week before you."
"And the other guy?"
"The day after you. His name is Bind."
"And hers?"
"Tempest." Neo paused, not wanting to push the kid too fast. "Want to meet her?"
A thoughtful silence followed by a nod. "Yeah, I think so."
Neo led him through the corridor, checking the kitchen as they passed. Morpheus was inside. "Hey," Neo said. "You seen Tempest?"
"She and Trinity just entered the dojo."
Neo nodded and led the boy to the Core for the second time that day.
Both Trinity and Tempest were laying down on the chairs, plugged in. Neo walked up to the computer and pointed to the screen, showing Havana the girls.
"Holy shit! Where the hell did they learn to fight like that?"
"Here." Neo said. "In the Construct."
"The desert?"
"The Construct can be programmed to be anything." Neo explained. "Morpheus just chooses the desert for his initiation speech."
"Can you fight like that?"
Neo nodded. "Cool thing about being born with plugs," He said indicating his own. "We get plugged into the construct, we can have programs uploaded into ourselves. Takes about three seconds to learn every move and counter move to karate. Takes about an hour to become an expert in martial arts."
"No way."
"Yup. And you can be trained in anything. Weapons, operating machinery. Few weeks ago, Trinity had to learn to pilot a helicopter. Took two seconds. Medical knowledge, books, how to solve mathematical equations… Two, three seconds and you can learn
anything
."
"Could I, like, learn to play guitar?"
"You certainly can." Link answered. "We have instructional programs on every instrument known to man. I wish I had plugs, sometimes."
"You don't have plugs?"
"Nope. I was born in Zion. Natural born people don't come with accessories."
Neo rolled his eyes, smiling at the screen. Trinity was half-assing it and Tempest still couldn't keep up.
With a sweeping leg, Trinity took out Tempest. She spun around so that she stood next to the girl and placed a foot on her chest.
"How did I beat you?"
"You're stronger than I am."
Trinity glanced down at her bare arms before looking back at her opponent. "This?" She said, indicating said arm, "This is RSI, sweetie. In here, I have no muscles." She moved her foot. "Get up."
"She's tough." Havana noted.
"Best fighter in the fleet." Link told him. "Holds the record for escaping most Agents- most people got two, maybe three on their files and that's if they're good... but she's escaped more than twenty times."
"Agents?"
Neo thought of how to best explain the Agents. "If the Matrix is a system, then we're a virus. We go in and disrupt the natural order. Take people like you- parts of the equation- away. Think of Agents as the software to destroy a virus. Their purpose is only to combat us. We go into the Matrix, they generally follow."
"What happens if they get you?"
"You die."
"In the Matrix?"
"Body can't live without the mind. You die in the Matrix, you die in real life."
"Oh."
Neo smiled, "It's why we don't get to save as many people as we want. Every trip into the Matrix is a danger." He looked down at Havana. "What do you think, kid? Feel like going in?"
"Can I learn to fight like her?"
"Most certainly." Link said. "Need help loading up?"
"I got it." Neo said, putting a hand on Havana's shoulder and leading the boy to be strapped into a chair. "Ready?" He asked, before slamming the plug in place.
Neo took the seat next to Trinity and strapped in his own feet. He pulled the lever that would allow him to plug himself in and opened his eyes in the Construct.
Trinity and Tempest had stopped fighting, distracted by the new arrivals.
"Havana, you remember Trinity."
Trinity nodded to the kid.
"And this is Tempest."
"Hey." Havana said.
"Hi."
"Link," Neo called out, "Give Havana the basic martial arts rundown."
Havana's eyes fluttered shut and his head moved shakily for several seconds until he fell back into his consciousness, gasping.
"Holy shit!"
"Language." Trinity warned.
"That was… that was…"
"Freaking awesome!" Tempest finished. "It's like getting high!"
"And what would you know about getting high?" Trinity asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Well, it's what I think getting high would feel like."
Trinity rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "You two want to test out your new skills?"
"Yeah!"
"Go easy on him." She warned Tempest.
"Nah, I got this down!" Havana said, shaking his head. "Come at me."
She saw Neo smile at the boy's hubris before looking to her. She motioned with her head for them to move to the side.
He walked towards the back, mentally programming a blue, velvet couch that appeared before them.
"Impressive." Trinity said dryly.
"Thanks." He sat down near an edge, opening his arm for Trinity to crawl into. She moved up against him with a smile.
"He's doing okay?"
"Seems to be. They're both doing better than I did."
"It's easier to adjust when you're younger." She defended. "You did a fine job."
"I threw up after my first time in the Construct."
"I know. I cleaned it up."
"You didn't."
"Uh huh."
"I am so sorry."
"Yeah, well, fell for you anyway so no harm done."
"Hmm." He closed his eyes and rested his head on top of hers. "I'll make it up to you sometime."
And he was surprised to find that he actually
wanted
to. Not that he ever wanted her to get sick but she inevitably would. A cold, the flu. Morning sickness. All three filled him with a domestic yearning. To wrap Trin in a blanket and hold her, to bring her soup and take care of her.
Back when he was Thomas Anderson he had spent a lot of time dreaming. Mostly about any life other than the one he had. 9 to 5 at work and 5 to 9 searching for answers on the web.
He'd imagined, of course, falling in love. He'd imagined it a thousand times, in a thousand places. How she would feel and sound and smell.
Walking up and down the streets with a smaller hand wrapped in his. Ordering take out before curling up on the couch and watching crap television.
It hurt, in a way, knowing that life was never going to be so simple for him and Trinity. He was never going to be able to go to museums with her or spend a day at the beach, lounging in the sun. No camping trips or making out in the back of a movie theater. No taking her to an amusement park and holding hands on the rides and eating junk food. No wasting money trying to win a bear for her.
"Neo?"
"Hmmm?" He replied without opening his eyes.
"Why am I holding a teddy bear?"
A beat passed and he opened his eyes.
"And why does it smell like cotton candy?" She asked.
"Oh fuck." Neo replied, concentrating on trying to remove the aspects from the fair that had emerged in the Construct. All he succeeded in doing, however, was make the dojo disappear and turn into a carnival. "Fuck!" He repeated.
"Neo…"
"Whoa, cool!" Havana exclaimed having ceased fighting when the dojo disappeared.
"Neo, what's happening?"
"I-I was thinking about the fair I used to go to when I was a kid but I didn't program it. I just thought about it and it… it's here! I didn't… I didn't code or program or..."
"Can you get rid of it?"
"I'm trying!" He put his hand on his forehead, trying to concentrate. "It's not going away! Why won't it go away?"
"It's okay!" Trinity told him, putting a hand on each of his arms. "Just take a deep breath. Nothing bad is going to happen."
A rumbling growl resounded through the fairgrounds and Trinity, reluctantly, turned to look at it. A tiger. A motherfucking tiger was standing in the middle of the grounds, stalking towards them.
"Oh god." Tempest said backing away.
"It's okay." Trinity told her. "The Construct has…."
safety settings.
But if he had overridden everything then… "Fuck! Link! Clear the Construct, now!"
Link's voice sounded over the speaker. "I cant! He's over-ridden it the program."
"Can you hack it?"
"I've never seen codes like this!"
"Fuck!" She swore again. She reached up and grabbed Neo's stunned face and angled it towards her own. "Neo, look at me!"
He turned his head, blinking at her in confusion. "I swear, I didn't…"
"Look at me." She said again. "Focus on me, okay? Just me. Like any other day, it's just us."
He swallowed, holding her gaze.
Trinity let go of her breath. "Link? Can you pull us out?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Havana disappeared first, followed by Tempest. Neo still hadn't looked away from Trinity when he was pulled back into the real world.
When she opened her eyes, Neo was still sitting in his chair. Link had unplugged him, along with the kids, and was working on her.
"Are you okay?" She asked, moving to her feet the moment she was able.
"What the hell was that?" Tempest asked, pissed off.
"Link."
"Got them." Link guided the kids away.
She waited until they were out of earshot. "Neo…"
"I swear I didn't program it. I don't know how-"
"You're the One. Your powers are probably still growing."
"So, now I just think of something and it appears? Thank god I didn't think about Agents…"
"No, you thought about a tiger." She took his hand and sat next to him, sideways, on his chair. "Want to talk about it?"
He looked away, not sure of what to say.
"I was thinking about you. And the Matrix."
"Mhmm." Her thumb stroked his hand gently.
"And about all the things that we'll never get to do. And I started thinking about this carnival I used to go to as a kid. And I imagined going there with you. An actual, real date. And then you asked about the bear and I tried to make the bear and the smells go away but, instead, the whole goddamn fair showed up?"
"And the tiger?"
"You said nothing bad was going to happen. Tiger was the first bad thing to come to mind."
She blinked. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Well, not perfectly okay. We're going to have to figure out exactly how you're doing what you did. It could be dangerous for all of us if you don't."
"Jesus."
"Come here." She wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned against him. "It's okay, Neo."
"If you had gotten hurt… if the kids had gotten hurt…"
"We didn't." She promised.
"You
could
have."
"So, we put you back in Construct. Give you time and space to practice."
He was quiet, angry with himself. Frustrated with the situation, tired from the hours he worked. Furious that he had put Trinity and the kids in danger and couldn't fix it.
"Hey." She whispered, looking back up at him. "It's going to be okay."
Neo took a deep breath and smiled. He believed her.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Emiya Shirou is pain.
There is nothing else, really. There is only pain. Blades cutting into him and out of him. His world ... that man's world eating him from the inside, and the tortured outer world. The Azoth Dagger is long gone. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. His Magic Circuits, the nervous system of his soul, are frayed to the point of no longer existing. He couldn't activate what was left of its energy, power he used to help him materialize Rule Breaker for .... for her ... to do anything, never mind fight his opposite in every sense of the word. There is just the mutation of metal and agony inside of him now, and the battered opponent -- his nemesis -- in front of him.
Shirou can barely remember his own name, but Kotomine Kirei stands out. The false priest, no ... perhaps the priest of Angra Mainyu, of All the World's Evil, of the thing that stands in the way of .... of her ... of their ... happiness stands over him with his cut, mutilated fists. They're both dead men, but he knows in what is left of his sense of self, after giving it his all that Kotomine has a little more time than he does. He doesn't even know why he still fights. Why he still fights to live. There's nothing he can do now. The bloated, twisted monolithic bulk of Angra Mainyu, the Grail poisoned by Avenger's hate and the ambitions of all the Magi before them is gestating, about to break free of its mutated womb and wreak havoc on the world. Even now, his ... that man's arm is screaming at him, but it can do nothing. Not like this. Not anymore.
Suddenly, Kotomine lowers his fists. The man's dark eyes, usually bland and empty, had been filled with anger and hatred. But now, they are softening. There is almost something like a ... gentleness. Like serene joy.
"You don't have any prana left, do you Emiya Shirou."
The priest sighs, almost jovially, good-naturedly even. "This whole time, you overcame the emptiness inside of you. Inside of us. You want something beyond yourself and you just don't have the energy to do it. Even after this."
Kotomine falls to his knees and Shirou hears something from the man. He's ... chuckling.
"You finally made a sense of self beyond helping others, beyond the guilt of living and now, you are losing even that. And I never ... got that far. No, I ..." Kotomine shakes his head. "I did it. After all this time. The Grail is complete. I protected that life. That was my purpose. I ..."
Shirou struggles to say something, to counter the priest. "And ... you won't live to see it, will you ..." Shirou coughs up more blood, feeling another sword pierce his lung. "You'll never see it be born ... you'll get to understand ... what you are ..."
Kotomine smirks. It's the same old expression that Shirou had wanted to knock off his face ever since they met at the beginning of the War. "Yes. But ... I die content, knowing that ... it will live on. That I did my part to save something ... like me. Something that couldn't help its own nature, that still had the right to be born. And we both what we wanted. I protected a new life. And you ... gained new life. A pity you had to kill your Servant, that she vanished ..."
In the haze of pain, Shirou's heart painfully skips a beat. No ...
"... and that your sacrifice for those girls means ... nothing. They will die after us. Even so ... r-rejoice, Emiya Shirou." Kotomine's face widens into a beatific smile. "You are the victor of the Fifth Holy Grail War." Kotomine spreads out his trembling arms, his fingers splaying out as he arches his neck back into a parody of the Son of God that he had once claimed to worship. "Watch the death of your dream and ... rejoice ..."
Kotomine's eyes close as he slumps over and crumples to the ground: the dark tendrils whirling out of his chest finally dissipating. Kotomine Kirei lies on the ground, as though in peaceful sleep, having a beautiful dream, his smile still on his face. Somehow, it seems wrong to Shirou. But at the same time, given how wrong the man fundamentally was, as he himself had ... been? Yes, it made sense.
"I ..." Shirou coughs. "I will break your dream. I will find a way ... They ... they? Yeah. They are the ones who will really ... smile ..."
Shirou tries to get to his feet. His body is pain. His mind is pain. He is agony. The Fire ... he survived the Fire all those years ago, burning him away ... he can do this one last thing. Somehow, what is left of Emiya Shirou has got back onto his knees. He is trying to find that spark in him again. Of the fire. Of the forge. One last work. One last projection. He remembers a sword. It is silver and inlaid with blue. Its hilt is gold but not as golden as the power surrounding it. It was ... her weapon. Her ... her name ... he can't remember. But he knows the name of the weapon. Of the sword. If he can just muster a little more power ...
Emiya Shirou forces his failing eyes open and looks up at the bloated mass than is Angra Mainyu filled with curses. He tries to feel that old anger towards it. Instead, he finds himself thinking about ... others. The two ... sisters ... stopping ... her Servant ... his Servant? It distracted one, broke her link with her enough for the other to ... Yes. He came there and freed her with Rule Breaker. He told ... told the other purple-haired one, the beauty ... he told her to save them. She told him to come back. For the sake of the other girl. Of the one with the ribbon in her hair. In his arms. The blue-eyed one had pain in her eyes looking at him. He felt bad ... if he had caused that pain ...
He never wanted to hurt anyone. He just wanted to see them smile like that man, on that day, of the Fire ... And if he could just get a little more prana, a little more energy, he could see those smiles again when he destroyed this black, ugly, pulsating thing that was the obstacle to their happiness.
"Ex ..." Shirou says, then chokes. His eyes widen as he starts to fall over. It'd been too much. He can't do it. He's failed. He got them all away and he's failed them ...
"M-Master ..."
Something catches him. Someone. He smells the rust of blood on hill flowers. Soft, wiry, strong hands surround him. They are holding him as he lies ontop of something, of someone soft. Shirou realizes his head against someone's chest. He feels droplets of ... moisture running down his hair. He blinks up. She's covered in blood. She is wearing a tattered blue dress. Her blonde-hair is messy and stained in red. Her face is gaunt and her eyes are sunken. But they are a greenish blue. Like the sea. The sea ... She is crying.
"Sa --" Shirou's head blazes. "Sa ..."
Saber cradles Shirou against herself. "Shirou ... Master ... Shirou ... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Quickly. Make a contract with me."
"Sab ..." Shirou's brow furrows under the blood, bruises and pain. "Saber ..."
"Yes. Yes, Shirou." She touches his face with a slender, pale hand. "Please. Make the contract. I have little prana, but we can survive. Until we get the others."
Shirou is transfixed. It's strange. He ... he knows he's seen her without her armour before, but after everything, seeing her in that blue dress without its breastplate, the tattered, wan texture of her skin, the agony in her eyes. "Saber ... no."
"Master, please. I can't leave you like this."
"I ... I saved you."
"Yes." Saber is trembling. "Yes you did."
"I ... I'm sorry I left you. I ... I am a terrible Master."
"No. No don't apologize. We don't have time." She shakes him, gently, but with an intense expression on her face. "Avalon might ..."
"We ... don't have time." Shirou sighs, feeling rather than seeing the mass of shadows and curses brew up around them. "You need to use Excalibur. You need to destroy this thing ..."
"I ... I can't." Saber looks away. "The struggle. Between the curse and Avalon. It took all my prana. Almost all of it. Together, Shirou. We need to face this together."
"... I can't ..."
"No. No you can. Please stay with me. I ..."
"You two are being ridiculous."
Saber jerks up. Shirou blinks and tries to see who spoke. It is a familiar voice. The form in front of them. It's ... small. She's a little girl. A little girl in a white, glittering dress. Her eyes glow red. Just like ... a woman he met? No, he has seen her before. A name fights to make itself known to him.
"Il ..."
The girl shakes her head. "Saber, Onii-chan, make that contract." She turns and faces the darkness of Angra Mainyu. "I know what I have to do."
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Royal Dining Room
Bright Moon Palace
Bright Moon
Etheria
Three and a half Years After Catra's abduction
Glimmer loathed formal breakfasts.
The ritual. The rules. The pomp and circumstance. The dress code. The number of staff they required. The cultural call backs to religion she barely understood. The sheer number of courses. The small portion sizes.
Queen Angella of Bright Moon loved formal breakfasts.
The traditions. The familiar ritual. The language of formal manners. The variety of courses. The artistry of the cuisine. The beauty of the inherent meaning of each action, each call and response.
The formal breakfast was, of course, a diplomatic staple, because it was a traditional welcome to guests, travelers, and dignitaries.
Glimmer had hoped her mother would realize the benefits of an
informal
breakfast. Not using a formal dining room. The palace had all manner of comfortable places to eat! More than Glimmer could easily remember, even not counting all of the places that weren't officially designated as places to eat that she had seen used as places to eat. Those places gave them so many
good
options. Picnics. Balconies. Or breakfast in bed! They could all stay in bed and eat breakfast there and chat over tablets! She didn't need real pants for an informal breakfast in bed!
Yet, the message from her mother had been ominously specific: formal breakfast. In a formal dining room.
Glimmer didn't hate
all
formal occasions. Some were fun and some were beautiful and moving. But morning was her least favorite time of day, making breakfast her least favorite meal. Being awake and focused enough to go through the rituals was hard. And annoying.
(Breakfast in bed was far superior.)
The more complicated breakfast got, the less Glimmer liked it.
Her mother's sadly direct instructions meant she was guiding Adora and Scorpia (along with Bow, Netossa, Spinnerella, and Castaspella) to the smallest of the palace's most formal dining rooms. For the most awkward breakfast of her life. (Which was a high bar to clear.)
Ironically, her mother was probably hosting the formal breakfast to show Scorpia and Adora that she took them seriously. A diplomatic apology in a secret language of food and drink and dress neither of them would interpret correctly. (Neither would Glimmer.) Did apologies count if the people you were apologizing to didn't understand they were being apologized to? Surely
that
was some kind of diplomatic rule!
Scorpia
might,
maybe have enough princess training to understand the message and to navigate her way through the ritual meal, but Adora -
Adora would be out of her depth. (Again.)
How was Adora supposed to know which silverware to use? (Had Adora actually ever
used
silverware?) How to eat the foods? (Adora wouldn't know what the foods
were!)
For someone with so much diplomatic experience, sometimes her mother missed the obvious. Such as: formal breakfast was not a great plan for Horde defectors, one of whom was an escaped slave.
But Angella was set on the formal breakfast. She had even sent palace staff to Scorpia's rooms with formal outfits for Bow, Glimmer, Netossa, and Spinnerella. (Upon realizing the queen knew where they were, Netossa had again lamented unprofessional and fickle disloyalty of palace staff she had bribed. Who should not tell the staff where
she
was, but tell
her
where
everyone else
was.)
Casta had magicked her robes, adding embroidery and changing them enough they looked incredibly fancy. Which is a spell Glimmer
really
wanted to learn. Because transfiguring her clothes meant fewer clothes
changes
she had to worry about! (Another vital argument in her list of reasons why she needed to learn sorcery. Which she would bring up with her mother after the disaster this formal breakfast was going to turn into.)
The palace staff had been able to raid the clothes they had stocked Scorpia's closet with to attire the lost princess like a princess, though in Bright Moon colors and not Imperial colors - but it was better than the Horde uniform she had been trying to pincer the Horde patches off of.
For Adora - nothing. No help from the palace staff who were stymied by her wings and insistence any clothing she wear have usable pockets. Glimmer didn't know what to make of her mother not sending clothes for Adora. Was
that
a secret message, too? (Her mother could communicate in a secret language of gestures and tableware she was alert for other hidden diplomatic or social messaging. It was going to drive her crazy, but Glimmer
was
going to figure out how to read it.)
But she hadn't sent anything for Scorpia, so it might mean nothing. It might mean her mother expected the staff to have provided Adora with a wardrobe like they had Scorpia.
Which made no sense. The highest rank Adora could (currently) claim would be 'royal retainer' and the rank she was most likely listed as was 'Horde refugee, blonde and confused.' No rank Adora could claim was exalted enough to get wardrobe assistance from palace staff. (Though, Glimmer was convinced Casta was one more incident away from registering Adora as 'Daughter of Castaspella' with the palace staff.)
Regardless, Adora was the only one of them without formal wear.
Adora wore her now-red and gold halter top and her now-white and gold pants. (Casta did good work. That spell would be so
fun!
) Her new boots. And a bracer Glimmer had no idea about. Probably something Casta had given her?
Adora's lack of formal wear didn't hide who she was or that she was out of place with the richly dressed crowd around her. She carried herself like a soldier, prowling like a cat as they traversed the palace.
And that's the problem. She's a warrior. She doesn't have anything else to be right now.
It was one of her hopes for Adora. That she would find something
else
she could be now that she was free. But Adora didn't code switch like the rest of them. She didn't change her movements and mannerisms to fit where she was or what she was doing.
But she looked a bit like someone right out of the old story books.
Golden wings and golden hair flowing down to her knees. (Hadn't it been braided last night?) Her eyes were a stormy blue-gray and her arms and torso and back had the faint hints of faded scars etched into corded, lean muscle. Her midriff was flat, with hints of defined abdominal muscles and even though she was still learning her wings, she moved with a kind of physical awareness and control Glimmer could only admire - and aspire to.
Adora's hand kept drifting to her belt, as if grasping for something that wasn't there. Was she
that
used to resting her hand on her sword? She was clearly unused to being unarmed; she hadn't been able to sleep the night before until she had found a sharp, sturdy knife from the kitchen.
(Did she have the kitchen knife hidden somewhere on her person?)
Formal breakfast wasn't something Adora could fight her way out of.
The formal breakfast also meant her mother had plans. Probably plans for Scorpia. The rebellion helping her free her people would give them forces
in
the Fright Zone and would give Scorpia incentive to align her people with the rebellion; to fold her people and her nation into Etheria and Etherian culture. There was no way Angella didn't have plans for the lost princess. (And Spinnerella had ideas, which meant Angella's plans would likely work, because Spinny would make them work.)
Her plans for Adora would probably annoy Glimmer, though.
The queen's plans for Adora would probably start a fight between Angella and Casta. The two women could barely be in the same room without arguing and Glimmer wasn't innocent enough not to know it was about her father as much as it was about her mother's unwillingness to commit to fighting the Horde. Both now - and during the old alliance.
That, and Casta had all but adopted Adora. Which would probably annoy her mother. A lot. On the other hand, it would give Adora more reason to stick around. And it would be good for Adora.
But Casta wouldn't want Angella to have plans for Adora. She would want Adora to have plans for Adora, and would want to help Adora with those plans. (And Angella wouldn't want Adora to have her own plans unless those plans were Angella's plans.)
Glimmer had grown up seeing Casta with Akrash and Ariel. Casta was treating Adora with the same care, the same attention. (Casta had brushed Adora's hair while the rest of them had gotten ready, talking her through the concept of a formal breakfast.) Casta was somehow present and supportive without being overwhelming or overbearing.
The same attention and care Glimmer had been jealous of more than once. How couldn't she be? Her mother drilled her on protocol and lectured her through tea parties, forced her to study, and demanded Glimmer be a specific
kind
of princess.
Casta had sent Akrash and Ariel to Bright Moon
just
to socialize and have fun. Angella wouldn't let Glimmer go to Mystacor hardly at all - and never without her.
Akrash and Ariel were allowed -
encouraged!
- to study whatever they wanted, but Angella had kept Glimmer away from sorcery, from martial arts, from - well, anything not statecraft or diplomacy. Because Angella was
determined
Glimmer would need those skills more than magic or combat skills.
Glimmer couldn't be who her mother wanted her to be. Because she wanted to be too involved. Because she'd grown up surrounded by war. She'd been raised by soldiers more than courtiers. Been taught weapon care right alongside how to avoid stains on her best dress. Coming of age had always meant she would inherit the war more than she would inherit the world her mother wanted her to have.
Angella hated it and feared it and was determined to keep Glimmer out of the war as much as possible. Glimmer hated and feared it and was determined to do her best for her people - even if that meant being a warrior and a general more than a diplomat or stateswoman.
Royal stewards opened the doors to the small royal dining room (sometimes called the dining parlor) and Glimmer immediately revised her opinion of her mother's grasp of the obvious.
The queen was already there - despite the ritual calling for her to be the
last
to arrive.
Daylight spilled in from the windows behind her mother; the only light in the room, giving it an open, inviting air. There was a stool for Adora, and next to it was a heavier chair for Scorpia. The table was set for a formal breakfast, but Scorpia's place had cutlery and cups suitable for her pincers.
Juliet was already sitting! No one sat before the queen.
Glimmer was dramatically confused. Her mother
never
modified the breakfast ritual. Not for other princesses or royals who visited. Not even for her own daughter! (Maybe She-Ra rated a change to the ritual? Or maybe it was yet another diplomatic ploy by her mother to make things go her way?)
"Good morning." Angella spread her hands and wings. "Bright Moon has a lot of rituals, a lot of traditions, and each means something. The formal breakfast, known as the Daybreak Feast, signifies new beginnings and is often a way to welcome new friends. It comes from the time when the stars vanished and as daylight broke after the first dark night, many gathered and shared both reverence for the dawn and hope the world would live on - and a sharing of food and drink to celebrate. A sharing of hope and survival from the fear of the night many believed might never end."
Her smile was warm as she beckoned them all in. "Of those I've invited this morning, even young Bow knows what this ritual means to me and has been through it many times. But you are new to Bright Moon, new to our food, and because I want to share this ritual with you and invite you to become part of Bright Moon and our struggle against the Horde, I have modified the ritual so you can easily partake. Come! Be welcome."
Netossa and Spinnerella both looked startled and suspicious. Juliet looked bored and worried. Bow looked delighted. Scorpia was hesitantly eager - and Adora looked like she was about to march into an unwinnable battle, grim and determined.
Casta's was another surprise: she barely reacted! Her eyebrows rose and her eyes widened slightly. There was a faint movement of her lips, but it didn't last long before her aunt stepped forward and gave a slight formal bow. (
Barely
deep enough to show respect for a queen.)
"Your welcome warms us, Queen of Bright Moon, and we are eager to welcome to the dawn at your table."
Was starting the ritual her way of showing appreciation for Angella's willingness to adjust one of her favorite ceremonies? Or was she baiting her mother into an argument? (Again.)
Angella's smile was grateful as she bowed back. "I am honored to invite you to our table and to share our gratitude for the light that has never failed. All we have is yours as we welcome the dawn."
Juliet had stood up as the others stood behind their seats at the round table. Bow to Glimmer's left and next to him were Netossa and Spinnerella and Juliet. Her mother at the head of the circular table facing Glimmer, and next to her was Scorpia, then Casta and Adora - who was on Glimmer's right.
Casta gently guided Adora to the stool; the blonde's wings were pulled taught against her back and she moved with extreme care not to knock anything over. The room was spacious and empty but for the pale wood table and chairs placed directly in front of the windows, but Adora was cautious none the less.
The few necessary decorations were placed near her mother, nowhere near Adora's wings. (Had her mother ever felt self-conscious about her wings?)
Juliet stepped back and bowed to Spinnerella; the symbolic surrender of rank and place to invite those who had come to the table in good faith. Spinnerella held out her hands to the queen, palms up, and the queen placed her hands, palm down, over Spinnerella's.
"All we have is yours, your majesty; we all stand under the light and we welcome the dawn. The darkness cannot shroud the world but for a night; the light cannot shelter us but for a day."
Angella bowed her head. "The moons have become the beacons of the world, and the path is never dark. Ever and always, we are steadfast, whether we stand in light or shadow."
The queen and Spinnerella dropped their hands and Juliet stepped back into her spot between them.
Glimmer waited for her mother to turn back to the table before finishing the welcome. Maybe Casta was right. Maybe giving her mother as much of the ceremony as they could was a way to show her they appreciated the changes she had made for Adora and Scorpia? (It would be easier to do if her mother had told her what changes she had made.)
This was something she could do for her mother. Something she could do to show her they could work together, even though they disagreed. (Often. About a lot of things.)
Glimmer looked right at her mother, bowed, and finished the welcome. "We have stood the night under the moons; we need not fear the dark, for it cannot hide what has come before. Ever and always, we remain steadfast, even in the shadow of night, for we will ever welcome the dawn as the dawn always welcomes the day."
All those who knew the ritual bowed their heads, intoning the final phrase.
"Ever and always, we remain steadfast."
Angella spread her hands wide over the table. "We share all we have and ask for nothing. We grant welcome and succor to all who come and expect nothing. We stand together as the light rises and the shadow falls. We are many who stand as one. As one, we remember what has come and what has gone. As one, we celebrate what will be."
Adora looked between Glimmer and Casta with panic growing in her blue eyes. As predicted, she had no idea what was going on or what to do.
Glimmer wasn't sure how to reassure Adora it would be okay. That everyone understood Adora didn't know what she was doing. How did she say anything about it without drawing attention to how Adora was feeling, thus making it
worse?
(Diplomacy was hard. Friendship was hard. Trauma sucked. And Glimmer was woefully under-prepared for everything. Which might
also
be a subtle message from her mother.)
Casta touched Adora's forearm with her fingertips - barely a touch, just enough to get the blonde girl's attention. Adora looked over at her and Casta smiled.
"Calmly, dear one." Her voice was
barely
a whisper! Could Adora even
hear
that?! Glimmer was reading Casta's lips as much as she was hearing it! "No one expects you to know. I will guide you, and not even Angella is going to judge you. This is her way of welcoming you - and apologizing for yesterday."
Adora touched the bracer on her arm, took a deep breath through her nose and exhaled slowly. She nodded at Casta. Her fingers went from the bracer to the collar, wincing. Was that shame in her eyes? (Did she feel shame it was hard for her to say the ritual words? Why hadn't Glimmer remembered that
before
they went in? She could have told Adora not to worry about it!)
Casta shook her head. "You only have to speak if someone asks you a question one of us cannot answer, dear one. Don't hurt yourself in the name of manners or ritual."
Adora's hand dropped from the collar and she nodded again, some of her hair falling over her face.
Casta smiled and laughed softly, brushing it behind her ear. "You really should have let me braid it this morning, even if it might have made us late. If you're not careful, you may end up eating it."
Adora rolled her eyes at Casta and tossed her hair back with a smooth roll of her head.
"
That
is a trick I've never seen mastered quite so well!" Casta seemed delighted at Adora's dexterity and her skillful hair toss. (Had anyone ever been proud of Glimmer for something so normal?)
Adora smirked and shrugged, and Glimmer - just for an instant - saw a glimpse of the girl behind the exhausted, traumatized warrior. A girl who could be playful and happy. She seemed like someone Glimmer could be friends with. Someone Glimmer
wanted
to be friends with.
Angella picked up her flute and tapped it with a small crystal rod. A sweet, gentle chime rang out as magic light flickered through the crystal glass.
"As it was before, it is now. As it will be, so it has been. We stand between the night and the dawn; we carry the light of day into the gloom of night. Ever and always, the hope of renewal beckons us onward. Ever and always, we are steadfast."
"Ever and always, we are steadfast."
Glimmer spoke the response with the ease of long habit, but for the first time - maybe ever - the words struck her and tugged at her with meaning.
Ever and always, we are steadfast.
Being steadfast was more than always moving forward or standing their ground. More than just clinging to the next moment. It was being grounded in what was, doing the best you could with what was. It was about never surrendering hope things could -
would!
- get better. It was remaining true to oneself; about trusting others to strive for the best possible future, even as you were being trusted to do the same.
There was a solidarity in remaining steadfast. It didn't matter if you did it in the same way as the people around you. It didn't matter if you didn't know how you could - as long as you
did
, from moment to moment until the dawn broke and you could see the light around you.
Glimmer glanced at Adora as her mother gestured for everyone to sit (hiding her surprise as her mother sat
with
them - the queen usually sat last, to symbolize she had seen to the comfort of others before she had seen to her own.)
The place settings were the same as they always were. Three plates stacked, each smaller than the one below ending with a small crystal bowl on top. Three glasses lined up on the table in front of the plates; a tumbler, a flute, and a teacup and saucer. Silverware on both sides of the plate and resting on the edge of the largest plate. Three forks. Three knives. Three spoons. Each of varying sizes. Two more delicate, ceramic bowls on either side of the cups.
Adora perched on her stool, carefully balancing herself and discreetly moving her wings so they didn't pull her backwards. Glimmer had expected Adora to have to hunch forward a bit, but she managed to sit straight and tall, as if her wings
didn't
need muscles to hold them in position; as if they weight nothing.
How strong
was
Adora, if she could do that mere days after the wings had grown? Glimmer wasn't in what Juliet called 'fighting trim,' but she wasn't out of shape, either. (She had plenty of endurance!)
Adora might be an exemplar of remaining steadfast. She had already endured so much - and there was more Glimmer hadn't been told. She was sure of it.
If Glimmer hadn't been watching the two so intently, she might have missed it. The look of shock - and unalloyed joy - on Scorpia's face when she realized her utensils were made for pincers. Thicker, flattened handles, angled and formed to be perfectly usable by a scorpioni. They were the same silver metal and there were just as many sizes and shapes as every other place setting.
Adora smiled at her sister. And looked up at Angella with sincere gratitude. There was something that was
almost
hope on her face. Her mother inclined her head ever so slightly to both them, smiling back. (How had her mother managed to make both feel better with so little? Diplomacy wasn't hard - it was
infuriating
.)
Angella clasped her hands in front of her. "Please, when I stand - remain seated. There is a much older version of the traditional formal breakfast I wish to practice today."
She was what? Her mother had never told her about an older version of the ceremony. Or practiced it at all!
Angella, using the small crystal rod, tapped a small silver gong set on a stand just behind her. The sound - deeper than the chime, but still high - rang out. A discreet door opened and palace staff rolled out wood carts that looked like cabinets on wheels piled with food.
Glimmer almost giggled when she saw Adora lift her head and sniff the air. Casta had to cover her face for a second - they both recognized
that
movement. Akrash, as a teenager, had been
very
interested in food and couldn't resist trying to figure out what was being served by smell alone.
A lot of Adora's mannerisms reminded Glimmer of a cat more than a bird - despite her having wings. What if it wasn't
cat
behavior, but
magicat
behavior? Had Adora grown up around magicats? Akrash had said at least
some
magicats were allied with the Horde.
Worth asking about, maybe? Once she got to know Adora a bit better. She was curious, that was all. How many other people were friends with magicats?
Angella stood and Juliet followed. Glimmer saw Casta's eyebrows raise almost comically.
"Normally, breakfast is served by staff standing in for the community providing for us all, but this morning, Juliet and I will serve everyone, as was once tradition, to show humility, even in leadership. I will admit," Angella walked over to one of the carts, uncovering a bowl of orange blum berries mixed with diced blue kasa fruit. "I chose not to continue this tradition when my grandmother abdicated in my favor, because I do not feel it shows humility - but in this case, I hope it will serve as an apology."
Starting with Scorpia, Angella filled each crystal bowl with fruit and Juliet came behind her with a spoonful of cream. As Glimmer had feared, they were small portions. She loved kasa fruit. At least her mother wasn't torturing her (this time) by giving her a tiny bowl of ico berries.
Angella and Juliet served themselves last before sitting. Somehow, her mother and Juliet had managed to use all the fruit and cream in the serving bowls while still giving each person what looked like
precisely
the same amount.
How did they manage that?! Did they count the pieces or something? (How much
math
did diplomacy require, anyway?)
Before she sat, Angella looked right at Adora and Scorpia, hands clasped in front of her and her wings spread wide, haloed by the morning light behind her. "I am sorry for how we treated you yesterday. We were wrong. We
should
have welcomed you as guests and invited you as allies. We
should
have listened to my daughter, who had met and fought against you and alongside you. Instead, we acted out of fear and panic and you both suffered for it. We
will
do better for you both going forward."
Glimmer almost fell out of her chair. She
actually
twitched. Had her mother said she was
wrong
about something? And said Glimmer was
right?
That had literally never happened before. Especially not in front of other people.
Casta, looking entirely too smug, bowed her head. "Thank you, Angella. I know Adora appreciates it."
Adora had nodded when Casta spoke, but Glimmer saw her face. She didn't trust the queen yet. She didn't probably trust any of them, except maybe Casta. She didn't have much reason to, and that sat like a rock in Glimmer's (mostly empty) stomach.
Scorpia looked at her bowl of fruit with some confusion. "I'm glad we can be friends, or - erm - allies! We don't want to make enemies, you know? We have enough of those back in the Fright Zone!" She looked up, thoughtful. "I mean, I think everyone we left there wants us dead, probably. Some might just want to capture and torture us or what have you. It kinda depends on how mad they are at us and if we killed anyone they liked."
Glimmer schooled her face to serenity, but inwardly cringed at Scorpia's awkward, but heartfelt response. Spinnerella bowed her head and Netossa's mouth twitched. (Glimmer was impressed with how fast Netossa had recovered from her earlier shock. Even though she hadn't said much on the whole 'Adora is She-Ra' thing. Yet.)
When Angella started eating, she carefully chose the right spoon for the fruit, holding it up for others to see. She silently demonstrated how to mix in the cream and eat the sweet appetizer.
Glimmer got to see Scorpia's face when she bit into the fruit - something Scorpioni historically didn't eat much of. She had a speculative look on her face as she chewed. But Adora's eyes went wide and she obviously was trying to eat as slowly as everyone else.
Angella gave an apologetic smile to Scorpia. "I fear - my grandmother's prejudices and fears of your people mean I know little of your culture, but what I
did
find in my reading last night seemed to indicate some of our food will taste different to you than they do to us - but isn't dangerous or toxic to you."
Okay. Glimmer had to give her mother credit. That was
smooth.
Redirect the blame for the way Scorpia's people had been treated by Bright Moon to a dead woman, emphasize her own efforts to do better,
and
encourage Scorpia to open up. (Diplomacy was also, apparently, blaming dead people. Good to know. Glimmer had a long list of dead people. And people she wanted to help make dead that could take the blame for a lot of things in the future.)
But her mother had a good point - and Glimmer had a new worry.
Adora wasn't etherian
. Ration bars were obviously safe for her, but what if she was allergic to some of their basic foods?
Was this why Myrin had wanted a full genetic workup on her? To find out if a casual lunch could kill Adora? (And formal breakfast had
so many foods
. This was a
very bad idea.
They could accidentally kill She-Ra with apology pancakes!)
She opened her mouth to say something, but Casta looked over at her and shook her head. She discreetly showed Glimmer her hand, where a small, glowing white crystal with pale blue runes floating over it was hidden.
Glimmer hoped that crystal would tell Casta if something Adora ate was bad for her. She'd raised Akrash without knowing what he could and couldn't eat, hadn't she? Akrash had survived to adulthood (despite his appalling lack of self-preservation), so it made sense Casta could take care of Adora.
Angella and Juliet served the next two courses - light, flaky pastries and ico berries (her mother gave her a double scoop. Because her mother loved her and didn't want her to starve to death while eating breakfast.) Then fluffy scrambled eggs with delicate shavings of cheese and peppers, and small pancakes with sweet orcha syrup.
Adora had gotten slightly more comfortable and was enjoying the food, but with each course, Glimmer glanced at the crystal in Casta's lap. It hadn't changed. Which Glimmer hoped meant Adora was going to be okay. (Adora was She-Ra. Surely that could protect her from anaphylactic shock. Right?)
After the last course had been served, Scorpia anxiously rubbed her pincers together and looked at Juliet. "So. I mean, I don't want to be a bigger problem, but you said we would be getting our stuff back? And we haven't, so I kinda wonder when that might be happening?"
(Oh no. Glimmer had planned to quietly and discreetly ask about that after breakfast. But Scorpia and Adora might not even know the meaning of 'subtle.' At least the ritual was
mostly
done and they could just talk until they got up to leave.)
Juliet blinked. And then frowned. She titled her head to one side and then sighed. She looked over at Angella. The two women shared one of their silent conversations where neither one of them moved a single muscle. Then Angella nodded once, leaned back and gestured someone over.
Glimmer glanced at Casta. Then at Adora and Scorpia. She had no idea how this was going to go.
Selene, her mother's majordomo, flowed into view from wherever she had been lurking. (Selene always lurked around Angella. It was in her job description, probably.)
Clad in purple-trimmed white tunic and trousers, and soft white leather boots, Selene looked like a pale ghost haunting the palace. If it wasn't for the purple on her uniform, she might blend in with the white walls. She was slight and slender, and her long silvery hair spilled down to her waist. Her silvery eyes seemed luminous in the natural light and her skin was so pale a blue as to be almost white - and her ears were sharply pointed. She was nearly pure Old Blood, and never seemed to care how otherworldly she came off.
She stood between Angella and Juliet and gave a small bow towards Angella.
"Their possessions will be returned this morning, your majesty. As they came from the Fright Zone and through the Whispering Woods, I thought everyone might appreciate if they were, at the very least, deodorized. Sanitized, in most cases."
Adora's head snapped up and she looked right at Selene, a faint hint of light deep in her blue eyes. Her wings spread slightly and her muscles tensed. Goosebumps ran along Glimmer's arms - Adora looked angry. (Adora was less skilled at diplomacy than Glimmer and was a girl of very few words and very direct action.)
She rasped out a single word.
"Kiari?"
Glimmer's stomach dropped. Things had been going
so well.
And now Selene's inability to endure anything dirty, broken, damaged, or 'uncouth' in the residential sections of the palace had possibly created
more
problems for Adora and Scorpia and disrupted the delicate truce Glimmer and Angella had managed to start building.
(Selene's obsession with cleanliness and 'proper' elegance had infuriated Glimmer as a child. Why couldn't she leave well enough alone?)
If Adora's wood sword had been damaged, did they have
any
way to walk that back?
Selene shook her head. "I do not know that word, lady. But your weapons were cleaned and examined by knights, not by my staff. Knights are far more knowledgeable of such. Nothing has been disposed of nor damaged, and all shall be waiting for you by the time your return to your rooms."
There was a softly accusatory tone and a hard edge in Scorpia's voice. "Adora's wooden sword, her
kiari,
has special meaning and there are rituals surrounding it. Someone else cleaning it kinda violates some of the rules."
Selene's expression barely twitched from her blank serenity. "Ahh." She bowed slightly. "My most profound apologies. I did not know."
Casta cleared her throat and Glimmer revised her expectations. Angella and Casta still had time to get into a petty argument, but apparently it would be Selene who started the first fight. (Casta and Selene had never gotten along and Glimmer didn't know why. Maybe it was time to find out? Before Casta turned Selene into something slimy?)
"Perhaps," Casta gave Selene an equally blank, serene look, "you should have spoken to them and
offered
cleaning services? Asking, I have discovered, works wonders for discovery and understanding. If you could not ask, I should think deferring such cleaning until you could ask would have been polite, don't you?"
Casta left the last part of her commentary unspoken: Selene should have endured or ignored the dirt and unpleasant smells. (How Casta managed that level of subtext with a few sentences and barely any facial expression was impressive. Should she be taking notes?)
Angella shot Casta a narrow-eyed glare. She was intensely protective of her pro-active and efficient majordomo and often thought everyone else overreacted to Selene. And was very pleased with how Selene kept the palace running - including her obsessive cleanliness.
Selene regarded Casta calmly, showing no reaction to the sorceress' commentary. "Perhaps I should have, but their things were brought to me when they were prisoners and not guests. Prisoners are not often extended such courtesies. I
am
sorry if we broke a taboo we were unaware of, and it will not happen again. I assure you there was no damage to any item and every item will be returned. However, I would not allow dirty or filthy things to be stored in this palace."
Glimmer swallowed back a groan. Small portions. High ritual. And now implications Adora and Scorpia weren't hygienic or clean people
and
breaking some kind of rule about Adora's sword. (Did the Horde have sword and weapon traditions? How did she not know about Horde traditions? Did the Horde have a handbook? Bright Moon had a handbook Hestia gave out to defectors and refugees.)
Reading between the lines, it seemed Selene had decided prisoners didn't have a say in what happened to their property and she might have even thrown some things out before their status changed, and needed time to retrieve or replace them. Glimmer hoped nothing was changed or damaged past the point of use.
They'd taken enough away from the two defectors.
(Glimmer was starting to hate subtext. How was she supposed to defuse this? She didn't know
how
to use subtext to fix this.)
Angella smiled. "Thank you for your care and consideration, Selene. As always. I am sure none of your possessions were harmed, but if there
is
anything repair or replacement, tell us. Please."
Adora looked
very
upset, but kept silent, her mouth pressed into a tight line, her wings taut against her back. The air around her buzzed a bit, almost as if she were restraining both her magic and herself.
Casta was frowning. Probably because she had noticed the same thing Glimmer had: no one asked Adora if there was any fix for what they'd done. Or what the rule they broke was.
Great. They were
already
finding new ways to dismiss Adora. Who was also She-Ra. There was probably no way Selene didn't know Adora was She-Ra. Her mother told Selene everything. (Was this a record? Going from apology to 'I'm sorry you feel that way' in less time than it took to get up from breakfast?)
Casta turned away from Selene, effectively dismissing her. (Casta was very good at pointedly ignoring people she was mad at.)
"Well, despite that appalling display of hospitality, we should all rest easier knowing the RuneStone problem is solved." Casta flicked her fingers, yellow and blue runes floating around her hand. An image of the sword materialized above the center of the table. "This," the image of the sword began to rotate slowly, "is a sword. It did not affect the RuneStones. The RuneStones affected the sword. Because it's a sword."
Juliet, glaring, leaned forward, but Casta cut her off. "Yes, yes. I know. I think we all do. It's a
magic sword
. Made by the First Ones. It has every hallmark of their magitech and is a superlative example of their finest work. It is, however,
just a sword.
The RuneStones are generators of magic. Batteries for magic. Focuses for magic - and so much more. The sword acts as a focus for specific kinds of magic, much the way an implement does for sorcery. It's an elegant weapon from a lost age, but it's powers are not such that it could activate and summon magic from the RuneStones, as it is designed to work with magic channeled into it, not to summon forth magic."
The sorceress stood, clasping her hands behind her back. "What happened was very simple, quite terrible, and can't be replicated easily. Unlike the event nearly two decades ago, when all the RuneStones acted in concert, pulsing magic towards a singular objective, this event was far more unfocused and far more dramatic."
Glimmer hated what Casta was about to explain. Shadow Weaver had tried to hurt -
erase!
- Adora. To take total control of her and her magic. And something Shadow Weaver or Adora had done in that fight had invoked the RuneStones. Adora had been changed and Shadow Weaver thwarted, but Glimmer didn't think any of them could imagine what that fight cost Adora.
"This event was a magical call and response. The other RuneStones reacted to one of their number being forced to do something it was explicitly not supposed to do. The other RuneStones added their power to the Black Garnet to disrupt the working. It's hard to say without knowing precisely what Shadow Weaver was trying to do when she cast her magics on Adora - in an attempt to take control of her magic."
Eyes widened around the table and Juliet cursed fluently under her breath. None of them said it, but if they were right about who Adora was, then Shadow Weaver had tried to take command of She-Ra's magic.
Of course
that would cause a massive backlash through the magic of Etheria. That made
some
sense, anyway.
(The Horde controlling She-Ra's power would keep her awake at night.)
Netossa shook her head; Adora's revelation had left the rebellion spymaster too shocked to speak for a few minutes, but she had more than made up for it with a rush of questions no one had good answers to. (Yet. Glimmer was going to find answers. For Adora. And for all of them.)
"It cannot easily happen again, unless the exact - or very similar - events take place a second time. We didn't even learn anything new about the RuneStones, because we've known their magic is interconnected in deep and profound ways."
(This time, Glimmer was actively surprised Casta didn't throw in so much as a reference to her 'more RuneStones' theory. Was part of diplomacy not reminding everyone that you thought they were ignorant or was it not reminding everyone they thought you were crazy?)
"Yeah. Sure. Not
easily.
" Netossa leaned forward. "Except Shadow Weaver knows it can happen now and can cause us all a lot of trouble if she replicates it on purpose."
"She can't." Angella looked around at everyone at the table, her voice firm. "She was wielding magic against magic. Will against will." She looked over at Adora. "And she lost."
Glimmer's mother went quiet for a second. Presumably to let that sink in. Adora had defeated Shadow Weaver in a battle of magic and willpower. Adora had been stronger. How powerful
was
Adora? And what kind of will did someone have to have to use and direct the kind of power She-Ra was said to have?
"She cannot force the RuneStone to fight against another RuneStone unless she is able to bond to it. Casta is correct; the precise conditions for this event are unlikely to be met again."
Casta didn't roll her eyes. Glimmer was impressed at her aunt's restraint. "To say nothing of the toll that failed working likely had on Shadow Weaver. As strong as she is, she cannot muster that kind of power often. Few can. It is taxing, and the act of taking control of another person requires vast power and focus. There
are
more subtle mind control magics, but they would not work on someone powerful enough to stand against Shadow Weaver - and they take a very long time to have the kind of effect she wanted."
Angella tilted her head, not acknowledging anything Casta had just said. Because why wouldn't she be petty when Casta had arguably been pretty polite to everyone but Selene, despite provocation. "And the sword?"
Casta waved a hand at the floating image. "Is a First Ones' artifact of great power. I have made sure it is safe. It can't be readily used outside of their magitech - precious little of which still operates - or by someone with enough magic of the correct light-aligned resonance. In this case, that would be Adora. Regardless of other theories as to the nature of her power, she has vast reserves of light magic with resonance matching the sword. I suggest we return it to her, because otherwise it's not very useful. And because it's hers. But I doubt I have a vote in that decision."
"You don't." Juliet openly scowled. "Once Adora decides where - or if - she fits in with the rebellion, we'll decide about giving her a magical weapon of mass destruction. Until then, I'd much rather it not be used and
especially
not used around the palace or Shining City. We don't know enough about it."
Glimmer choked back a laugh. Here was the diplomacy she'd expected: polite lies and outright contradictions! Hadn't Juliet said once the sword was examined it was going back to Adora? And without the sword, Adora wasn't able to become She-Ra. They were going to hold her power hostage so she would join the rebellion in whatever capacity her mother wanted. Because manipulation was
such
an effective tactic. (The look on Adora's face convinced Glimmer she saw the ploy as clearly as Glimmer did. Diplomacy was about to end and the argument was about to start.)
"No." Angella sighed. "She can have the sword back, because it
is
hers. Glimmer is right about that."
Twice? In one morning?
And
her mother was doing the right thing without an ulterior motive? Glimmer was glad she already sitting, because she definitely needed to sit down after hearing that.
Juliet fumed and Adora looked surprised. Scorpia looked confused, but happy.
Casta nodded sharply. "I will ensure she has it, then." The sorceress paused. Gathered herself. Then bowed to her mother, slightly deeper than she had upon starting the ritual. "Thank you, Angella. Adora - and I - appreciate that trust."
Angella looked right at Adora. "You have earned our trust. Our respect. And even if you had not, the sword is not ours. As much as I wish we could, Bright Moon - nor any other nation - has sole claim to the legacy of the First Ones. You do not serve our enemies, and I hope you are willing to fight alongside us. But that decision is yours to make and the sword is yours to use as you see fit - or not."
Adora put her hand, fingers up, against her sternum and bowed to Angella. "Thank you. Means - much to me." Her voice was a whisper and her words still hoarse, but Angella smiled in response.
(Okay, so now it made sense. Her mother was building rapport. Trading trust for trust, help for help when they hadn't really done anything other than agree to give Adora her property back. That was sneaky and made Glimmer think longingly of a hot shower.)
Scorpia cleared her throat. "Well, since you're willing to do that, I guess I should tell you what we need to tell you. About Hordak. The Horde, and what it might be a part of."
Glimmer looked over at Scorpia. Her voice was very strained and quiet for someone who was going to reveal a few state secrets and maybe deliver some bad news. She hadn't expected anything that dramatic, but maybe she should have?
Adora's wings ruffled and she glanced between Scorpia and Casta. Okay. This was going to be something dramatic, possibly traumatic, and was
definitely
both a state secret
and
bad news.
"Hordak met with me. Wanted me - with Adora - to befriend the princesses at the princess prom. Wanted me to use that friendship to do to your RuneStones what he'd done to the Black Garnet. Infect it with some kind of extra-dimensional crystal that would 'corrupt' it. He was very non-specific about specific effects it might have, but it sounded bad."
Casta smiled and the others around the table nodded, some tension bleeding out. Why were they so unconcerned about this? Hordak was planning to break the RuneStones! Hordak had a way to break the RuneStones!
Netossa nodded as she leaned back to reach for a pot of coffee that hadn't been served. Without looking. Somehow. (Unfair.) "We know about the crystals. Not the specific plot, but Casta got her hands on a crystal over three years ago, along with the broad strokes of that plan."
Of course. They
knew
about the secret plan to destroy the RuneStones and thought it wasn't any big deal. Why would it be a big deal? (Them not telling her was depressingly normal, though.) At least Casta knew about it and seemed to have a sorta-solution.
Casta smirked. "The crystals aren't from this physical dimension. Their resonance sets up a sort of - magical harmonic in the RuneStone that slowly corrupts it and affects its nature. But I have figured how to detect the crystals once they get into a RuneStone and I know how to remove them before they can do serious damage. Hordak's plot was fairly cunning and would have worked had my son not managed to steal the crystal and get it to me."
Glimmer was pissed. So
that
was what Akrash was up to? He was stealing Horde magic crystals and uncovering plots? Why hadn't anyone told her about this? It seemed like something she would need to know, given she was connected to a RuneStone! (And who would trust
Akrash
to be a
spy
of any kind? He couldn't take care of himself on a
good
day! He needed a keeper, not a handler!)
Being kept out of the loop was starting to get
infuriating.
(Though, if she were being fair, three years ago she wasn't the Crown Princess and she wasn't involved with the rebellion at all. Not being told about something they had discovered and figured out years ago wasn't
that
bad. Except for all the years they'd had to tell her about it.)
Scorpia let out a gusty sigh. "Oh good! You already know about that and have it covered. Because that's all I know about it. Umm…then he told me about his brother. Who is still alive and who Hordak thinks he has to contact. He seemed really conflicted about it? But yeah. Hordak was sent to Etheria from somewhere else. Somehow. And he destroyed my people on purpose, let them nearly die on purpose! And I think he's planning on bringing his brother, who he called Prime, here. Giving him Etheria, maybe?"
Fear. Shock. Confusion. Existential dread. More fear. That was Glimmer's entire existence for a long moment before Angella cleared her throat. Hordak had allies from somewhere else. Hordak wanted to call those allies in and
give them Etheria?
Could the Horde get any worse? Any scarier? Any more dangerous? How were they supposed to fix
that?
Glimmer looked at her mother, for the first time in a long time, desperate for her mother to make things better.
But Netossa answered, grimacing and drinking more coffee. (Glimmer didn't think coffee could help. She suddenly understood the impulse to day drink.) "Thank you, Scorpia. That…possibility wasn't something the old princess alliance was unaware of."
"It's not?!" Glimmer wished she could pull the words back as soon as she said them. She sounded like a child, not a commander or a princess!
"No." Netossa shook her head as she reached across the table and poured coffee into Glimmer's teacup. "Look. We know Hordak's not from Etheria. We know he's unhappy he's stuck on our planet. Despite all his tech, he can't leave. Why he can't leave is an open question, but how likely is it Hordak is the only one like him? That he has a boss - or a brother, I guess - and more resources off Etheria is logical. He definitely knows how to build and train an army. But he does it differently. Cultural and biological differences, we think. We also think his people - or brother - can't get to him for the same reason he can't leave. So we haven't worried about it
too
much, but we've always kept an eye on him to see if he was about to call for reinforcements."
Glimmer picked up her coffee and took a gulp. Sips weren't going to help right then. "So we're just
hoping
Hordak doesn't call his big brother and maybe big brother's army down to squash us all?"
"What else can we do, Glimmer?" Angella took a pair of larger mugs from Selene, setting them in front of Glimmer and Netossa. Both were full of fresh coffee. (More proof her mother loved her and wanted her to survive breakfast.) "If you have an idea, I am open to it."
Had the world just stopped spinning for a second? This was her moment to have a brilliant idea and impress everyone with her ability to contribute to the rebellion. To prove she was smart enough, skilled enough to build her alliance!
So she threw out the first idea she had. Mostly, because it was the
only
idea she had. "We have to figure out how Hordak plans to contact his brother and what's keeping him stuck here. We keep him from contacting his brother and we make sure whatever is keeping him keeps on keeping him here. Find out what progress - if any - he's made in getting around what's keeping him here and, well - break it. Break so bad he has to start over."
Juliet looked right at Glimmer. "Well. Fuck. I think she's right. We've never seriously considered assaulting the Fright Zone before, because it wasn't worth the cost in people and resources, but if we keep Hordak from getting those reinforcements…"
Netossa cradled her mug. "Like we haven't been looking for some technological horror that could be used to summon more of him? Getting
any
info out of Hordak's research and discovery group is damn near impossible, even for me. We haven't been able to subvert
any
of them. They've got no reason to turn on him. They're respected, valued, and treated well. They get a lot the regular Horde doesn't and are untouchable, because Hordak himself will end whoever so much as inconveniences them."
"Kyle." Adora said the name and then swallowed hard. "Crimson Waste."
Scorpia almost jumped out of her chair. "Whoa! You're right! He was in R&D! And he's your friend! He's one of the ones who helped us escape and he was going to the Crimson Waste with the rest of the Bulwark. We just go to the Crimson Waste, get him to tell us or tell us how to get someone in R&D to talk and we can find out."
Netossa looked between Scorpia and Adora with wide eyes and a slowly growing smile. "You have a friend who worked in Hordak's tech team? And you know where they are and think they might help us? Is that what I just heard?"
(See? Even if Adora
wasn't
She-Ra, recruiting Adora and Scorpia was a
good
idea!)
Adora nodded. "Kyle. Was. Squad. Since. Childhood." She clenched her fists. "Helped. Save. Me."
She gasped and pressed her hand to her throat, but shook her head, pointing at Scorpia.
"Yeah, he and Lonnie - the Bulwark's Force Captain - grew up with Adora. Helped me break her out and they were heading for the Crimson Waste and we were heading out to - anyway. Yeah. We can ask him."
Angella shook her head. "Not so fast. I won't say no to this, because it
is
intelligence we need and have no other way to get, but we must
not
act in haste and thus act poorly. We will need to get the right team, the right equipment, and the right plan to get to the Crimson Waste. I don't know if there's a path to it that's not through Horde territory and the Waste is vast and dangerous. We don't know where in it they might be and I am not certain we possess an accurate map. I need a developed plan with a high chance of success before we commit people or resources to it."
Glimmer wanted to protest. She was going to protest until Casta discreetly grabbed her wrist - and shook her head when Glimmer looked at her. She swallowed back her arguments with a hefty swallow of coffee. (Maybe her mother had some good points there, and maybe making sure they got it right the first time wasn't a bad idea. Maybe waiting might let Glimmer get her team assembled so
she
could lead the mission! That was worth not arguing, right?)
Angella sat back in her chair, wings fluttering. "Netossa…"
"Yeah." She waved her hand at the queen. "Yeah. Done and done. I'll get my people in the Fright Zone on it, but I don't think it'll be fast. Maps of the Waste, ways in and ways out. Rumors of R&D projects that might be connected to contacting this brother. And getting word to any of Scorpia's people she's with us and we're gearing up to help."
Juliet grunted and held up the
very
large mug she was sipping coffee from. (Where had she gotten that and why was it so much bigger than Glimmer's mug?) "All of that, and any heavy long-term deployments to hold what might be a landing zone. He's going to need a place to put his brother and any troops he brings in."
"Oh yeah. I plan on it." Netossa sighed. "I'll put together some care packages for my people to pass out to our contacts in the Fright Zone, but this might mean me going there myself. Spinny had a plan for using Scorpia withe media somehow, so if we can pull the trigger on
that
sooner rather than later, we can use it as cover for the intel sweep. I can also feed a few of the folk here Hordak has bought off and give him sone juicy misinformation. We can do this, but Angella is right - we have to go slow, be careful, and get this right. Especially because there's a good chance that team will have to infiltrate the Fright Zone and break things once they talk to Kyle. Adora will likely have to be part of whatever team makes contact with the group in the Waste, though. So we need to get her and Scorpia set up and geared up post haste."
"And trained." Casta waved her hand and the image of the sword finally vanished. "Adora needs training in her magic. With her wings. The collar removed. For us to make sure Shadow Weaver's working left no other damage or effects on her. She needs to learn how our forces operate and we need to determine what her role will be. I can handle most - if not all - of that, with Glimmer's assistance."
Juliet set her mug down. "I have them set to meet with Hestia after breakfast. I'll be taking Glimmer and Bow straight from here to work on building her team. I'll give you a few days, Casta. But Adora? Scorpia?" She looked between both of them. "If you're going to be doing this with us, then we'll need to know what you can do. What your skills are and how you measure up to our people. I'll set up a skills eval and some basic training in how we function for a few days from now. You both good with that?"
Adora nodded, but her wings rustled again, and Glimmer understood her agitation. No one had
asked
Adora if she was willing to reach out to her friend for them. She would have to talk to Juliet and her mother about that habit, and she would make sure to talk to Casta and Adora about it. Because Glimmer wasn't comfortable with this trend.
She needed to talk to Bow. He'd been silent the entire time, but he would have ideas. He'd have seen all the things she missed.
She also didn't like that she wouldn't be there when Adora and Scorpia met with Hestia, but there was no good way to fix that. She didn't want to give Juliet time to regret her decision to give Glimmer her own team and she didn't want anyone - especially not her new friends - to think she was trying to control their integration into the rebellion. (Even though she definitely wanted to control their integration into the rebellion. She wasn't sure she trusted Juliet or her mother with Adora and Scorpia yet.)
"Selene can take care of getting Adora and Scorpia to Hestia." Angella cut in with a soft voice, but was obviously about to start deciding things for everyone. Despite everyone being able to decide for themselves. "Glimmer is yours for as long as you need her, Juliet. Bow is his own man, but I would not be surprised if he were right alongside my daughter. Is there anything we missed?"
Glimmer was almost certain there was more and there were things they should talk about. Like Adora being She-Ra. But she also wanted the chance to research. Find things out herself so she could know what she needed to know to argue with her mother when her mother's plans were inevitably revealed. (Or help. Or just be included. Her mother might have amazing plans for Adora and Scorpia, but Glimmer wouldn't know unless she made it impossible to keep her out of the loop.)
"Very well." Angella smiled. "We have much to do, I think. And hopefully, with far less friction than yesterday."
The queen stood and bowed. She tapped the rod against the flute and the high, sweet chime rang out again.
"As the dawn rises to the day, so do we rise. Under the light of morning, all things are seen and can be known. All secrets are illuminated, all shadows banished and all that is hidden is revealed. Under the light, ever and always, we remain steadfast."
Everyone else stood (Adora and Scorpia a bit slower than the others) each responding:
"Ever and always, we remain steadfast."
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Will stood as still as he possibly could while Hannibal’s tailor, Luciano, took his measurements. On the other side of the room, Hannibal leafed through a book of materials, colors, and patterns. He occasionally plucked a square of material out of the book and placed it on the table.
Though Will wasn’t sure what Hannibal’s system for organizing the squares was, he knew there were way too many for a single suit.
Especially
a suit meant for Will.
Will craned his neck, hoping to get a better picture of whatever Hannibal was doing. “I said one suit, Hannibal. One.”
“Yes, and
one
of these suits will be bought with your blessing.”
Will rolled his eyes. Luciano tapped Will’s stomach, reminding him to stand straight. Will asked, “Can’t you just buy Winston another chew toy or something? I don’t think I need multiple thousand-dollar suits.”
The look that Luciano and Hannibal exchanged said that Will was vastly underestimating the price of the suits, but Will wasn’t enough of a masochist to ask for a better estimate. Luciano finished Will’s torture session with four separate neck measurements, then said something in Italian that Will assumed meant he could step off the fitting platform.
Luciano walked over to Hannibal, who set the book of material squares to the side and picked up the two thin sketch books he’d brought from home. He and Luciano had a short conversation in Italian where Will understood exactly nothing, then Hannibal handed the books to Luciano, and Luciano left.
Hannibal motioned for Will to join him by the table of sorted squares. Once Will was next to him, he pointed to two of the green squares in the book. “Which do you like better, Darling? Shamrock or emerald?”
Will blinked. “They’re the same color.”
Hannibal pursed his lips, as close to judgmental as Will had ever seen him. After a moment, he added one of the two identical squares to the pile. “Shamrock it is. We’ll also get sea green and spring green. I don’t suppose you have a preference between dark cyan and teal?”
Will crossed his arms, amused. “What do you think?”
“One can hope.” Hannibal chose four more squares from the book, then handed it to Will. “Look through these and tell me if there’s anything you like.”
Will flipped through the book, barely sparing each page a glance. “Why are we doing this again? My wardrobe is fine.”
“For a wardrobe to be fine, it first has to exist.” Hannibal tapped the page Will was on, a silent request for Will to take it more seriously. “Money is no object, Mylimasis. Don’t be shy.”
“I’m not being shy. I just don’t see the point in all the fanfare. So I’ll blend in with your opera pals a little better. So what? I don’t care what those rich assholes think.” Will glanced at Hannibal. “No offense.”
“None taken. And the point is not for you to blend in, but for you to stick out. To shine like the gem you are. Please, Will. Indulge me.” Hannibal’s hand moved from the book to Will’s cheek, caressing his stubble. “Let me buy you whatever I want.”
Will leaned into the touch, loving but unconvinced. “I don’t know. I’m afraid if I give you a blanket go-ahead to spend money, I’ll walk out of here with a new house.”
"Nonsense. Buying you a house would be counter-productive to getting you to move in with me.”
Will froze. His heart did a little flip, flowers of excitement blossoming in his stomach. In a voice that sounded too small to be his, Will asked, “You want me to move in with you?”
“I would like nothing more. Though I intend to respect your space until you feel the same.”
Will shuffled his feet, pleasantly flustered. “What if I’m never ready?”
“I’ll wait.”
“Forever?”
“If need be.” Hannibal brushed a curl behind Will’s ear, gentle in a way Will had come to crave. “You’re worth waiting for, Will.”
Will’s resolve melted. He leaned forward, book still open between them, and rested his forehead on Hannibal’s shoulder. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. You can buy me whatever you want. I mean, I draw the line at boats and planes, but other than that… Okay.”
“Perfect.” Hannibal kissed the top of Will’s head, causing an inordinate amount of warm-and-fuzzies to fill Will’s chest. “Then the first thing I’d like to give you is this.”
Will straightened as Hannibal retrieved a small gold envelope from his pocket. Will blinked, obediently setting the book on the table to accept the envelope. He tore open the top and pulled out a familiar, thick black matte credit card with no markings. He scrunched his brows.
“You’re giving me your credit card?”
“Debit card, technically. Linked to the account I showed you before.”
Will’s heart dropped into his stomach. He shook his head, thrusting his hand out to give the card back. “Hannibal, I can’t. This is way too much.”
“It’s in your name. Use it as you please, no questions asked.”
“It’s in my…” Will placed his free hand on the table for balance. He couldn’t look away from the card. “Holy shit, Hannibal. Do you have any idea how much money this is?”
“I do.”
Will glanced up. Hannibal stood stock still, immaculate as ever. He was ready to rebut any other arguments Will made. Ready to give Will the world, if Will would only ask for it. And Will was struck with the realization that
‘I love you’
wasn’t just a phrase Hannibal said out of convenience. He was genuinely
in love
with Will.
And Will…
Will was
happy
.
Will nodded, a bland thanks considering what he was receiving. Love and belonging coiled in his stomach, and he tucked the sleek card into his threadbare wallet with no further arguments. Hannibal smiled like Will had given him the sun and moon. Will crumpled the envelope into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket along with his wallet.
“I only wish I had something to give you, too. You’re always doing things for me. Providing for me. It feels like I’m taking advantage of you.”
Hannibal’s smile warmed. He took a single step forward, into Will’s personal space. “You’ve given me yourself: body, heart, and soul. That’s more precious than all the material things in the world. And if this
is
you taking advantage of me, know that I wholeheartedly enjoy it.” He placed a hand over the bruise on Will’s hip, thumb tracing the curve of Will’s waist, then kissed the sensitive skin just under Will’s ear. “Please, Will. Take advantage
more
.”
Will groaned and tucked two fingers from each hand behind Hannibal’s belt. He tugged his boyfriend closer. “Do you want to buy me things, or do you want to seduce me? Because you can only have one.” Will kissed Hannibal’s neck, attempting to sway the vote in his favor.
Hannibal hummed approvingly. “Terrible boy.” He pulled Will even closer, burying his nose in Will’s hair. Hannibal breathed in. Will relaxed into Hannibal’s hold. Hannibal kissed his scalp twice, then stepped away. “I suppose I’ll have to choose buying you things. There’s no telling how much longer you’ll remain amenable to the idea, whereas I’m confident in my ability to convince you back into bed at a later date.”
Will snorted. “Are you calling me easy?”
“Only for me, Mylimasis.” Hannibal picked up the book of materials again and held it out to Will. “Now, please.”
Will flipped dully through the book, no more interested this go around than he was the last time. He paused only once, toward the back of the book, and pointed at a square of dark brown tweed.
“This could make a nice jacket.”
Hannibal smiled fondly, like Will was a particularly adorable dog with cancer and only three days to live. He plucked the square out of the book and put it with the stack of flannels on the other side of the table, completely separate from the rest of the piles.
“Thank you, Darling. Now, there are a few items on rush order which we should get within the next few days, but the rest will take a month or more to complete. When it’s finished, it will be delivered to my home. You can take what you like from there.”
Will glanced at the ridiculous number of squares laid out across the table. “You sure? This looks like it’ll take up a lot of space.”
“You’ve seen my home. Is that really your question?”
“No. I guess not.” Will rubbed his palm up and down the side of his jeans. “What are you going to do when people start asking about me? You know what they’ll think. Me, going from shoes where my toes poked out to ridiculously fancy suits. You, footing the bill for everything.” He grimaced. “I know I don’t give a damn what they think, but you’re a socialite. I just don’t want you to…”
“Feel embarrassed of you?”
“No. You don’t feel shame, so I doubt you feel embarrassment, either. It’s more like I don’t…” Will stopped. The words were thick and heavy, catching uncomfortably in his throat. He swallowed. “I don’t want you to regret this.”
“My love. I could never regret anything that gives me even a single second longer with you.”
Tears stung the backs of Will’s eyes. He blinked them away. “No. Can you—Can you drop the romantic poetry for a second? I’m serious, Hannibal.”
Hannibal tilted his head. He watched Will for comprehension’s sake, with no emotional affect. The monster hidden behind his eyes shimmered into view.
It was the monster that said, “You belong to me, Will. As surely as the blood in my veins, you are mine. I will never regret that. And I will never let you go.”
Will imagined, for a moment, trying to break up with Hannibal. He knew without asking that it would never work, and that Hannibal would find him. Stalk him. Control his life from afar. Hannibal would lure him back in with a silver tongue and a life of ambrosia. And if that didn’t work, there would be drugs. A kidnapping. Stockholm syndrome.
Antlers
.
Will pushed the image away, refusing to look.
And though it was unhealthy to the extreme
(dangerous, even)
the assurance helped. For while the monster was untrustworthy and devious, it rarely ever lied. Rarely had need to lie, once the person suit came off. Will relaxed his shoulders. He nodded.
“I love you.”
“And I love you, Mylimasis. Always.”
A promise. A threat. A giant red fucking flag sitting out in the open, and all Will could think was that
Hannibal would never abandon him
. That Will could be happy for the rest of his life because Hannibal was
never
going away.
Take the card.
Keep the clothes.
(Accept the monster.)
Will leaned in, eyes locked with the beast. Unsure when he’d get the chance to see it again. He breathed in the scent of power and safety. He took one step closer to the abyss.
“Always.”
(***Paragon***)
Hannibal chose an entirely French restaurant for their date. The food was authentic. The menus were written in French. The waiters (upon Hannibal’s request) spoke only French. All of this to ensure that Will, at least for the night, would depend entirely upon Hannibal.
Will was, of course, absolute perfection. He wore a black button-up with two shining lapis stripes down the left side, drawing attention to gorgeous blue eyes. His beard was but stubble, emphasizing a strong, youthful jawline. His curls were brushed back and, with the barest hint of gel, styled into place.
The valet who parked Hannibal’s car looked Will over twice. The patrons at the tables they passed stopped eating to stare. Will didn’t seem to notice, his eyes solely on Hannibal, but Hannibal soaked in the attention with unrestrained pride.
Will was the most stunning thing any of them would ever see. He was art in the flesh. And he was Hannibal’s.
Their reservation put them at a table in the middle of the room, as it would be cruel to keep something as awe-inspiring as Will tucked away in a corner. When their waiter arrived, he asked what they would like in French. Hannibal responded in turn, ordering an appetizer, both their meals, and an espresso martini with an extra shot for Will.
Will watched the exchange, openly amused. When the waiter left, Will said, “This place seems nice.”
“Very much so. I know the chef from my time in Paris.”
Will tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “Did you help him start this restaurant?”
“I provided funding, yes. What gave it away?”
“The fact that you’re willing to eat the food?” He canted his head to the side. “And also maybe the fact that I tried to get a reservation here for me and Alana, so I know the wait-list is six months long. Unless you happened to set this reservation the day we met…” He made a rolling motion with his fingers.
The waiter dropped off a water for Hannibal and the martini for Will. Hannibal ordered a crushed pineapple martini, also with an extra shot, on the heels of the delivery.
“Spectacular thing. Your deductions always astound me.”
“Yeah. Well be astounded while you still can because once I get drunk?” Will lifted the martini in a faux toast. “Smart Will is gone.” He raised the glass higher, smile dazzling, then put it to his lips and downed the entire thing. When he placed the glass back on the table, he asked, “You still sure about this?”
“Positive, Darling.” Hannibal reached across the table to twine their fingers. “I want to know you in all of your facets: brilliant and otherwise. Every moment with you is a gift.”
Will's lips twitched in a lopsided smile. “Just remember. You asked for it.” He raised two fingers to flag down the waiter, who was already bringing over his pineapple martini. Will blinked when the waiter sat the full glass in front of him. Hannibal ordered a vanilla crème brûlée martini with yet another extra shot before the waiter could walk away.
Will sniffed the martini. “Damn. When you said drunk, you meant
black-out
drunk, didn’t you?”
“I did. Would you like to slow down?”
“Nah.” Will shrugged and tipped that glass back, too. He licked the edge of the glass to clean the sugar rim, then set it on the table. “I would like some whiskey though. Not sure what the point of all these girly drinks are.”
“It’s so you can’t keep track of how much you’re drinking.”
Blue eyes glanced down at the empty glass, suddenly suspicious. “It doesn’t taste like… How much is in this?”
“Enough.” Hannibal tapped the back of Will’s hand. “Tell me about work.”
Will blinked, taking the slightest bit longer to respond than normal, then shook his head. “No, you tell me about your work. I’m always talking. I want to listen.”
Hannibal smiled at his compassionate boy. The waiter brought over the third martini and their appetizer. Hannibal thanked him, then ordered an apple martini with two extra shots to be brought out with the main course.
The waiter left. Will lifted the vanilla crème brûlée martini to his lips, sipping it rather than gulping. Hannibal moved two of the coquilles Saint-Jacques over to his personal plate while Will, the beautiful gremlin, plucked one directly off the serving plate and began to eat.
Hannibal said, “Work is going well. My practice is flourishing to the point where I turn down more clients than I accept, and my reputation precedes me. I also enjoy my current client list, for the most part.”
Will popped the other half of the first coquille into his mouth, then reached for another. “You don’t like Franklyn, right?”
“Franklyn is a messy man who fails to see where my boundaries lie.”
Will smiled softly. “Sounds a lot like me.”
“I have no boundaries with you, Darling. And even if I did, you’re so handsome that you could flounce over whatever boundaries you like, and no one would be upset.”
Will laughed. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“Look around. There isn’t a single person here who doesn’t wish their date was you.”
Will scanned the other tables, absentmindedly bringing the martini to his lips. He drank the alcohol like it was water. Voice already adopting a slight lackadaisical quality, he said, “Pretty sure they’re looking at you. Handsome older gentleman speaking fluent French and wearing an obviously bespoke suit? Money and education beat good looks every time, and you’re handsome on top of that. A real triple-threat.”
“You have all of those things as well, my love.”
Will scoffed. “Yeah, not sure money-by-association counts. And even if it did, they can’t see my bottomless pockets and PhD from across the room.”
“Is my doctorate on display?”
“Your fluent English, French, and obviously not-French accent are. That’s basically the same thing.” Will reached for another coquilles, but they were gone. He blinked at the plate. He drank the rest of his martini. The empty glass clinked against his unused bread plate as he said, “Shit, these are strong.”
“Yes. They are.”
“No wonder women get taken advantage of so often if this is what we’re plying them with.” Blue eyes moved from the empty glass to Hannibal. The soft dusting of pink on Will’s cheeks professed the alcohol’s effects even before Will said, “Do you think we should start a movement? Not like a movement-movement, but maybe set up a system where there’s someone at every bar who can check what people are drinking and make sure they’re only going to get exactly as drunk as they want to get? Or that’s probably too complicated. Maybe just somebody who stands at the door and asks everyone if they actually want to go home with the person they’re leaving with. And if they’re too drunk to answer, you take their phone, find their address, and call them a cab.”
Hannibal smiled into the lip of his glass. “That’s a lovely idea, Darling.”
“Is it? Do you think we should do it?”
“No.”
Will slumped into his chair. He picked up his martini glass, but it was still empty. The waiter came over to replace their empty plates with the main course and to give Will his apple martini.
Rather than cutting into the meat atop his duck confit, Will picked up the duck leg with both hands and tore into it with his teeth. He licked the fat off his fingers before picking up his martini and taking a swig.
Hannibal watched, both horrified and delighted. He delicately cut into his own boudin noir aux pommes. “Is the meal to your liking?”
Will shrugged. “Not as good as yours. But then, I don’t think anything is.” He blinked twice, eyes on the half-eaten leg in his hands. “Shit. That was really ungrateful, wasn’t it?” He tilted his head, almost seeming to speak to himself. “Am I
spoiled?
We’re at a super fucking fancy restaurant, and the food is delicious, and all I can think is that yours is better.” He looked up, eyes meeting Hannibal’s without hesitation. “That’s insane, right?”
“If by ‘insane’ you mean ‘perfect,’ then yes. You should never be satisfied with anything less than the best.”
“And in this scenario, you’re the best?”
“I am.”
Will scoffed goodheartedly. He finished tearing the meat from bone, then dropped the scraps onto his plate and went once more for his martini. He drained the majority of it. Paused. Drank the rest. He cleaned the fat off his hands with the napkin, though rather than politely wiping his fingers, he continually twisted it over his hands like a mechanic with a grease cloth.
“And what if I’m not satisfied?” Rather than slurring his speech, as most drunks did, Will’s words elongated.
A southern accent coming out to play
. Hannibal leaned forward the slightest amount, enamored. Will picked up his spoon and moved the food around on his plate. “What if you give me everything you’ve got, and I still want more?”
Hannibal smiled softly. “Then I’ll find a way to get more. To give more. To stuff you until you’re so full of me you barely remember what it was like to go without.”
Will put his elbow on the table and rested his head in his hands, pleasantly sluggish. Long black lashes fluttered coquettishly. “Is that what you’re going to do tonight? Stuff me full?”
“Yes.” Hannibal took another bite. He watched Will blink. Noted the lagging dilation. He raised a hand to flag down the waiter, ordering Will a final martini, a café liégeois, and the check. When the waiter walked away, Hannibal said, “I’d like to go on a walk with you first though. To savor the moment.”
Will raised both brows and smiled, amused. “I’m not gonna be great at walking after this.”
“Not after I finish with you, certainly.”
Will snorted, but it turned into something of a giggle. “Okay. Serious question. Have you ever had someone back out of having sex with you because your dick is too big?”
“No.”
“Were you ever bad at sex?”
“I certainly wasn’t as good as I am now, but I’ve always made it a point to put my partner’s pleasure first.”
“Even when you don’t let them cum?”
“Especially when I don’t let them cum.”
The waiter delivered the martini, the café liégeois, and the check. Will eyed the dessert with all the wonderment of a child, forcing Hannibal to once again question whether or not Will was aware of his own sweet tooth.
Hannibal placed his card on top of the check and handed it to the waiter. Will picked up his martini and, eyes still on the café liégeois, drank the entire thing. He placed the martini glass on the table with too much force, control of his faculties slipping, then picked up the dessert glass and spoon.
He cradled it to his chest, again appearing childishly pleased. He began to eat.
“May I ask a question, Darling?”
Will looked up. Spoon in his mouth, eyes glassy, he nodded.
“What was the first dessert you ate?”
Will scooped out a large spoonful of coffee ice cream and espresso. He opened wide to eat the entire bite, somehow still managing to get Chantilly cream on the corner of his lips. He swallowed before licking the Chantilly away. “I don’t know.”
“The first one you remember then.”
Will took another bite, then another. He tipped the glass back and drank the espresso and melted ice cream. Dessert nearly gone, he finally responded, “I found half a slice of cake in a take-out container in…” Will’s eyes turned to the table, giving away the fact that he had stolen it out of the trash. Rather than clarifying, he reiterated, “In a take-out container. I was six.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I think so. I only got a few bites in before Dad saw me and took it for himself. Then he hit me so fuckin’ hard that—” Will cut himself off. He brought out another spoonful of ice cream, but he didn’t eat. Gaze focused on something Hannibal couldn’t see, Will mumbled, “It was fine. My front teeth were due to come out anyway.”
Cold fury seethed in Hannibal’s stomach at the thought of Will –
his Will
– being denied even something as lowly as cake out of the garbage. If Hannibal ever had the good fortune of meeting Will’s father, he would pay the man back for Will’s harsh treatment tenfold. And until then, Hannibal would make sure his boy had access to every sweet thing he could think of.
“Do excuse my language, but your father sounds deplorable.”
“He was.” Will ate the ice cream still melting on his spoon. “What was your dad like?”
“Strict but kind. Doting. So long as I behaved, he denied me nothing.”
“And your uncle? The one that took you in?”
“Less kind, but no less doting. It was the love of his brother which spurred him to take me in, not care for me. His wife, on the other hand, liked me very much.” Hannibal sipped his water, deciding how much to disclose. “Lady Murasaki and I were lovers, for a brief time.”
Will blinked. If it bothered him that Hannibal was in a legally incestuous relationship, he didn’t say so. Rather, he finished his ice cream and asked, “Who ended it? You or her?”
“The both of us. I was genuinely fond of her, but once she saw me for who I was, she turned away. I was unable to leave part of myself behind for the sake of another, and she was unable to see past what she considered to be flaws. We were left with no middle ground on which to stand, and the relationship ended.”
Will tilted his head, ear nearly brushing his shoulder. Brilliant even in his inebriation, he asked, “Is she still alive?”
“No.”
Will nodded, apparently having no other questions. The waiter returned Hannibal’s card and receipt. Hannibal tucked his card into his wallet and left a generous tip on the table. He stood, then caught Will as his boy tried to stand, too. Will leaned his entire weight against Hannibal, equal parts lethargic and clingy.
Perfect thing
.
Against Hannibal’s suit jacket, Will murmured, “You sure ‘bout that walk?”
“Positive, my love. Can you stand on your own for a moment? Long enough for me to get our coats?”
Will nodded, curls fluffing where they pressed against Hannibal’s chest. He wobbled as Hannibal pulled away, arms going out to the sides for balance. Hannibal donned the coat on the back of Will’s chair, then helped his boy into the black and gold coat Will had picked out for him. It sparkled when he moved, making him look even more recherché than usual.
Hannibal didn’t bother buttoning either of their coats, instead tucking Will into his side and sliding his arm around Will’s waist for balance. Will immediately melted into Hannibal’s hold, trusting Hannibal to guide his way. Will’s normally nimble footsteps were stumbling, with Will practically tripping over his own shoes.
Hannibal held Will even closer, adoring his darling’s helplessness.
He kissed Will’s hair and temple and finally his lips. Will tasted like coffee and ice cream: the smell of alcohol lingering strong on his breath. Hannibal kissed him harder.
Behind them, a rude Frenchman
(a native Parisian, judging by his enunciation and fluency)
said, “Disgusting. Look away, Emile, lest they spoil our otherwise lovely meal.”
Hannibal glanced at the couple, noting the man’s lesser state of dress and undeserved arrogance. Before he could request a business card, Will raised his head to glare at them over Hannibal’s shoulder. In the most
adorable
Cajun French Hannibal had ever heard, Will said, “Fuck you. The meal was ruined the second you touched it. Homophobic asshole.”
Hannibal stared at Will, his ire for the rude couple entirely forgotten. He placed a finger under Will’s chin and tilted his boy’s head back, forcing Will’s attention away from the undeserving and onto Hannibal. Will’s lips pursed, still obviously irritated.
Hannibal caressed Will’s jutting lower lip with his thumb. “Darling boy. Why didn’t you tell me you spoke French?”
Will blinked, confused, then paled. “Shit.
Shit
. Forget that. You didn’t hear anything.”
Hannibal smiled, almost nonsensically entertained. “Then why am I so desperate to hear it again?”
“Because… Shit. I was doing so good, too.”
“Good at pretending not to speak French?”
Will raised a slow, clumsy hand to scratch at the back of his head. He missed the first time and had to try again. “I don’t speak French. Or not real French. Just bastardized fucking Louisianan-French.”
“Which you hid from me.”
Will ducked his head, the blush from alcohol deepening with embarrassment. “You went through a lot of trouble to make sure I couldn’t understand what they were saying. To have total control. I didn’t want to ruin it for you.” He glanced up through thick lashes, normally sharp eyes hazy and unfocused. “Sorry.”
Hannibal hugged him close, the adoration he felt for Will doubling by the moment. “Oh, Mylimasis. You have nothing for which to apologize. You’re perfection in the flesh.” He kissed both of Will’s cheeks. “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”
Will preened under the praise, melting happily back into Hannibal’s side. Hannibal squeezed his waist, endlessly possessive.
They exited the building. The valet was already waiting with Hannibal’s Bentley. Hannibal helped Will into the passenger’s side, even going so far as to buckle Will in, then slipped into the driver’s seat.
Will rested his head against the window as Hannibal started to drive. Without looking at Hannibal, he sleepily mumbled, “You should be more careful.”
Hannibal glanced toward Will’s reflection in the window, noting that blue eyes were already closed. Curiosity piqued, Hannibal asked, “Careful of what?”
Will only shook his head and repeated, “Careful.”
Hannibal stopped the car as they reached a decently secluded park, only ten minutes from Hannibal’s home. Hannibal exited the vehicle and walked around to help Will out, too. He opened the door, then leaned over and unbuckled Will’s seatbelt. As he practically lifted Will out of the car, he asked again, “Careful of what, my love?”
Will fell against Hannibal’s side, snuggling in. He lifted the arm not trapped between them as though it were a lead weight and very slowly, very
gently
, smoothed the hair atop Hannibal’s head.
“Your antlers were showing.”
Hannibal stilled. He stared down at the boy in his arms, not yet sure of what precautions he would need to take if Will
knew
. Thoughts of kidnapping and conditioning flitted through his mind. Tone neutral, he asked, “What do you mean?”
Will leaned even more heavily against Hannibal, if possible, and huffed out a laugh against Hannibal’s jacket. “You’re silly. You don’t want to go for a walk. You wanna fuck me here, in the park.” His eyes fluttered closed. “Coulda just asked.”
Hannibal stared at Will for another minute, trying to think if there was another way to probe Will’s knowledge without giving himself away. Eventually, he closed the car door and guided them out of the parking lot. Once they were off the beaten path, heading toward a thicket of large trees, Hannibal said, “I wanted to surprise you.”
“You wanted me too… too drunk to say no.” Will’s blinks were long and slow. “Do you want someone to see?”
Hannibal glanced at Will again, unsure whether the double entendre was purposeful or not. Tightening his grip on Will’s waist to support even more of his boy’s weight
(to make sure Will couldn’t flee),
Hannibal said, “On occasion. While I dislike the idea of someone else seeing you in the throes of passion, there’s an undeniable thrill that comes with marking you as my own in such a blatant manner.”
Will snorted. “Exhibitionist.”
“Can you blame me for wanting others to know that the finest man in the world belongs to me?” Hannibal took Will into the thicket, leaning his boy against one of the larger trees. Will was almost dead weight at that point, but that was preferable. Will had no need for autonomy.
Will hummed and, a bit too late to be considered witty, said, “Everybody already knows you belong to you.”
Hannibal smiled and glanced around the thicket. They were decently hidden but not impossible to find. If the right person happened to look from the right angle, it was even possible to be spotted from afar.
(Unlikely, considering the cold and dark would ward most passersby away, but not implausible.)
“I’m going to undress you now, Darling.”
Will nodded absently, his curls catching on the rough bark of the tree. Hannibal stopped directly in front of Will and started undoing the buttons of Will’s shirt. Will wasn’t wearing an undershirt, as Hannibal hadn’t provided him with one, and his bruised red nipples immediately perked from the cold. Hannibal leaned down as he continued unbuttoning, taking one of the sweet nubs in his mouth. He bit down without drawing blood. Will shuddered.
When Hannibal finished with Will’s shirt, he moved onto the button on Will’s slacks. The shirt and coat stayed on, both to protect Will’s back from the harsh scrape of bark and because Hannibal enjoyed the imagery. Hannibal tugged Will’s slacks and boxer-briefs down in a single go, pausing as he saw Will was still soft.
Hannibal tilted his head, curious, and paused in undressing Will to stroke his boy’s cock. Will moaned, but his cock remained soft and squishy in Hannibal’s hand. Excitement spiked in Hannibal’s own dick, and he leaned forward to replace his hand with his mouth. Will keened and bucked gently against him, instinctively seeking his pleasure. The cock in Hannibal’s mouth didn’t even twitch.
Hannibal grinned around Will, teeth testing the sensitive flesh, then sucked hard and pulled away. It seemed his perfect boy couldn’t get hard while drunk. (Or, at least not while
this
drunk.)
“Lovely thing. Why didn’t you tell me you have erectile dysfunction when you drink too much?”
Will’s lips twitched into a barely-there frown. “I don’t.”
Hannibal palmed Will’s soft cock, gleeful. “You most certainly
do
.” Hannibal kissed the cute, flaccid thing, then pulled Will’s pants the rest of the way down. He only bothered slipping them off one leg, though he kept Will’s shoes on. Hannibal straightened Will’s sock garters while he was on the ground, then stood.
Will had yet to be fucked, and already he looked debauched. Hannibal retrieved a bottle of lube from his coat pocket, smeared a healthy amount on his fingers, then put the bottle back. He used his clean hand to undo his own slacks and free his cock, then pressed the hard length of himself against Will’s adorably small penis. It squished beneath his ministrations, just as defenseless as Will.
Desire pooled in Hannibal’s cock. He kept his eyes on their dicks as he slipped his lube-slicked hand behind Will and prodded his boy’s entrance. Will grunted and arched his back to give Hannibal better access. Despite the fact that Hannibal hadn’t anally penetrated Will in over twenty-four hours, his fingers slid in smoothly.
Alcohol made Will lax and unreactive, his eyes barely opening at the insertion.
Hannibal groaned and rubbed himself against Will’s soft cock. Ecstasy and agony were one and the same as Will’s heat teased his fingers, and Hannibal, in turn, teased Will’s prostate. Will, so close to Hannibal’s monster
(so close to the truth)
still chose to open up and let Hannibal inside. Flesh and muscle stretched and softened, eager to take Hannibal in.
Hannibal thrust roughly against Will’s softness, hoping that Will’s cock, too, would be sore in the morning. He added a third finger without extra lube and teethed the pale curve of Will’s neck. “Do you want me, Darling?”
“Ye—” Will moaned as Hannibal ground against his prostate, hips bucking so that his soft, squishy cock rubbed along Hannibal’s hard shaft. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, please.” A panting breath.
“Cock, please.”
Hannibal sank his teeth into Will’s neck, barely short of breaking skin. Will whined needily, and Hannibal removed his fingers to rub what little lube was left on his hand onto his cock. He used that same sticky hand to lift Will’s leg, positioning his pliant, drunken boy as he pleased.
Hannibal’s fingers curled around Will’s calf, pinky over the sock garter, to keep Will in place. He used his free hand to align himself with Will’s hungry hole, then moved his hand to the bark on the other side of Will, keeping his boy upright.
Hannibal pressed his lips to Will’s as he pushed inside, sinking slowly into that heavenly heat. Will moaned loud and low, eagerly accepting everything Hannibal had to give even when too inebriated to move. He clearly cared nothing for the fact that they were outside. That someone could
hear
.
The need to
fuck
and
take
pulsed in Hannibal’s cock, demanding he use Will as he pleased.
Hannibal hitched Will’s leg up higher, causing his boy’s head to fall forward. Blue eyes opened, glassy and dazed. Hannibal slipped his thumb under Will’s sock garter and stretched it out, releasing it to snap against Will’s muscled calf a moment later.
Will grunted softly, barely aware, and Hannibal started to thrust. There was pleasure in knowing a hangover wasn’t the only pain Will would feel in the morning. Pleasure in knowing that Will might not even remember why particular places ached.
Will’s hand found purchase on the arm Hannibal kept propped on the tree, bitten-down fingernails digging into soft flesh. The pain fueled the pleasure, and Hannibal suddenly wished Will were awake enough to mark him properly. Hannibal thrust harder, clothed thighs slapping against Will’s bare ass. Will sucked him in deeper.
Ecstasy lit fireworks in Hannibal’s abdomen, filling his already straining cock with white-hot desire. He snapped Will’s sock garter again, harder this time, then lifted Will’s leg higher. Will clenched around him, impossibly tight. His needy little whimpers engorged Hannibal’s dick further.
“Hello?”
Hannibal glanced over just as someone stepped out from behind the tree. Their eyes met. Hannibal’s pleasure
skyrocketed
.
Rather than shying away, Hannibal grinned. He lifted Will so the stranger could see where they connected. So the pedestrian swine could experience
art
. He thrust harshly against Will’s prostate, pleasuring his boy so well that the darling thing went up on his toes to keep Hannibal inside.
Will cried out, lost in the sensation. The back of his head knocked against the tree trunk, leaving his bite-bruised throat bare. Hannibal fucked into him hard enough that his soft little cock bounced against his shaved groin, and Will’s head tilted toward the stranger.
They must have made eye contact because Will’s already blown pupils widened further. His perfect insides squeezed and trembled around Hannibal’s cock, drawing a low groan from Hannibal’s lips. The stranger took off at a run. Will lifted his head to look at Hannibal, slow and uncoordinated. Confusion and pleasure threaded together in Will’s sweet voice as he asked, “Was that…?”
Hannibal quickened his pace, orgasm nearing. He cradled Will’s leg in the crook of his elbow so he could reach around to palm Will’s little dick. Pleasure coiled tight in his stomach. His thighs trembled.
Hannibal leaned forward, practically bending his boy in half, and murmured, “Just a dream, Darling.” He thrust as hard as he could, bouncing Will on his dick. Will moaned wantonly, worries forgotten as Hannibal’s thick, bulbous cockhead rubbed mercilessly against his prostate. Hannibal dug his teeth to the vulnerable flesh of Will’s throat, so easy to rip and ruin, and crooned, “You’re safe here with me.”
Will moaned again. Louder. Will’s insides closed down around Hannibal’s cock, milking him for all he was worth, and Hannibal saw stars. He tilted his head back, groaning long and low as the ecstasy in his cock broke free, gushing endlessly into Will’s gorgeous heat.
He filled Will as much as he could in a single go. There was no way his insatiable boy could be content with only one load of cum in his greedy body, but it would have to do until they got home.
Hannibal’s sperm made the subsequent thrusts in and out of Will’s pliant body a smooth glide. His oversensitive cock found pain with the pleasure, leaving Hannibal shuddering where he stood. He buried himself inside Will a final time, savoring the perfect fit of Will’s ass around his cock, then pulled out. Hannibal lowered Will’s leg to the ground slowly, making sure his boy was upright and supported by the tree before actually stepping back.
Blue eyes watched him move, half-lidded. Dark brown curls haloed around Will’s head from where they’d stuck to the bark. Will’s neck was dark with bite marks, his nipples perked and delightfully well-abused. Cum shone on his thighs, a trickle of it already slipping down toward his knee. The open jacket and shirt only emphasized his disarray, and with the presence of his shoes, sock-garters, and crumpled pants around one ankle, Will looked positively
debauched
. His tiny cock sat in the center of it all: soft and small and on full display against his hairless groin.
Hannibal reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He turned on the flash, not wanting to miss a single detail in the dark, and took a full-body photo. Will blinked, likely not entirely aware of what was happening. Hannibal took another picture, then another after that. Once he was sure he had one of suitable quality to act as his screensaver, he pocketed his phone and returned to Will.
“Perfect boy. My sweet, darling thing.” Hannibal brushed sweat-slicked curls from Will’s forehead. “I’d like to get dressed and take you home, but I don’t wish to get my suit dirty. Would you mind cleaning me?”
Will dropped to his knees without an ounce of hesitation, decadent mouth opening wide to accept Hannibal in. Hannibal obliged, sliding into Will’s sinfully talented mouth so his boy could lick the cum from his cock. Will sucked and swallowed, the laving of Hannibal’s cock almost second nature, and Hannibal squeezed his spent dick to pour the remainder of his semen onto Will’s waiting tongue.
Will’s mouth remained open: a show for Hannibal. A declaration that Will was not only eating his cum, but tasting it.
Savoring
it. Hannibal pushed his quickly softening cock back inside, using his dick to smear his cum along Will’s tongue.
“You missed some, Darling. Try again.”
And Will did.
He obediently returned to sucking Hannibal’s cock, tongue running over every inch and dipping into every fold. When he finished the second time, he licked along Hannibal’s balls, too, then around the base of his soft cock.
Hannibal pet through damp curls, praising the lovely thing. Will looked up at him, the night sky reflected in the dark blue of his irises. He waited for the next order. (The next desire. The next
whim
.)
The power Hannibal had over Will was staggering, and the fact that it was given
willingly
made Hannibal’s heart skip. He tucked himself away and fixed his trousers, then crouched and offered his hands. Will
(brilliant, capable, perfect Will)
accepted. He teetered as Hannibal pulled him to his feet, still incredibly drunk.
Hannibal caught Will’s weight, adoring, and leaned him against the tree once more. Hannibal knelt at Will’s feet to help redress his boy, too.
He gently guided Will’s foot through the leg of his boxer-briefs, then his slacks. The process was made more difficult by the presence of his shoe, but not overly so. Once both Will’s feet were through, Hannibal guided the boxer-briefs up Will’s legs. He pressed the cloth close to Will’s inner thighs, soaking up whatever cum had slipped out of his hole and pressing that wetness to already slick cheeks.
The trousers went next. Hannibal stood as he buttoned and zipped them. He fixed the buttons on Will’s shirt with steady fingers. The buttons of Will’s coat, he left undone.
As they left their little alcove, the light of the moon caught on Will’s coat. It highlighted him, marking him as a deity among men. A stunning creature worthy of attention even from celestial bodies. Will snuggled into Hannibal’s side, depending on him for both balance and guidance. Hannibal held him close.
He would protect Will from whatever came their way. He would keep Will, love Will, and take care of Will in every way imaginable. For as long as Will would have him, Hannibal would be there.
(And if Will wouldn’t have him, Hannibal would still be there, only in a more insidious manner. Will was an angel in the flesh. Hannibal his devilish counterpart. Though it would be a shame to clip Will’s wings, they
could
be clipped. Cages had to be built before they could be gilded. Will was too exquisite and rare to risk losing, so at the first signs of flightiness – if Will
ever
thought to run away – Hannibal would cripple him. Irreversibly. Irrevocably.
Forever
.)
Hannibal helped Will into the Bentley, dreading even the seconds of separation that would come with walking to the other side of the car. He rubbed the backs of two fingers down Will’s jawline, morbidly curious as to whether or not he would ever be blessed with this level of trust again.
It depended, he supposed, on how much of Hannibal’s antlers Will remembered in the morning.
Would it be a hazy memory, brushed off and forgotten? Or would it click into place, revealing everything that made Hannibal who he was? It was too early in their relationship for Will to accept him. Too high a risk to simply
let
Will know.
If Will figured it out before Hannibal was ready – before Hannibal was
sure
that his boy would never leave him – then Hannibal would have no choice but to break Will. To drug him. To steal him away.
(To love him.)
For as much as Will’s consent was important, Will leaving Hannibal’s side
(Will choosing another path)
was a superficial option. Will was the perfect companion. The other half to Hannibal’s dark, lonely soul. And Hannibal would not let him go.
Hannibal kissed Will’s lips, deciding then and there that the rest of their night would be perfect. Hannibal would make love to his boy on silken, eggshell white sheets. He’d sketch Will’s figure by the light of the moon, then bathe Will by hand: rubbing a soft, warm washcloth over every inch of Will’s beautiful body. Their night would come to an end with Hannibal once again buried inside Will, each of them holding the other close.
For if their idyllic life had to come to an end, it would do so lovingly.
Every moment cherished.
Right until the end.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Disclaimers:
As much as I may
want
to claim ownership of this famous series, I can’t because both
Harry Potter
and
Bravely Default/Bravely Second
belongs to a whole lot of different companies that I can’t remember the names of at the moment. Any characters that appear in this fic that is not a part of the original series, belong to me so don’t take them without asking first.
Word Count:
249
Marriage Law Rejection Letters
Letter #40
Submitted By: Jostanos
===============================
To whom it may concern,
First of all:
Your new marriage laws do
not
affect the people of Luxendarc.
Second:
My
name
is Matsuo Arrior, and
not
‘Harry Potter’.
Third:
You have
no
idea what
Asterisks
* can do, and that is a
whole
lot
more
than what
you’re
threatening to do.
By the way..
How
do you plan on ‘
taking Harry back to marry some snobbet
‘ when you
don’t
even know
how
to get
here
?
Not Harry Potter
Matsuo Arrior
Author’s Notes:
This latest
Marriage Law Rejection Letter
update was recently submitted to my review box by Jostanos. Thanks for the submission. If anyone else has any letters they want to submit, feel free to send them in.
lol
I’ve decided to make a new rule, when submitting letters. If your letter is a
crossover
one, please add on the name of the other series at the bottom of the letter, so I can know. Using the the Title:
Crossover With -
.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Last of Us II Epilogue
Jackson was only a day away from the farm. Ellie and Dina had chosen this distance so they could still travel between the small town and their home if needed but still be left alone. On a horse, it was an even shorter journey.
Ellie had checked if there were any horses left in the area near the farm but luck wasn’t on her side. Luck hadn’t been on her side for months now.
Surviving hordes of runners, occasionally running into clickers. Groups of bandits were also a big concern that Ellie mostly tried to avoid. As if those problems all weren’t enough, she’d have to scavenge for food and drinks as well... and somehow that was the most difficult part. She could easily kill a runner or a clicker but food was rare and drinkable water even more scarce.
Ellie had grown thin and weak because of this over the months. She could survive weeks without much food and water but months really was difficult. At this point, she was surprised she was even alive.
When she’d started her journey back to the farm months ago, she had been wounded. There was a huge wound in her stomach and she was missing two fingers, her fight with Abby had also left her all bruised and swollen. Anyone could’ve taken her out easily at that moment.
Her return trip had been long and difficult but walking those last few miles to Jackson was the hardest. She did not know how everyone would react to her returning. She was pretty sure she was even presumed dead, what was supposed to be a quick journey turned into many months of searching for Abby.
...
Abby.
She would have to come face to face with everyone and tell them that she didn’t kill Abby. Her journey had essentially been a waste. But she didn’t regret it. It had been painful and hard but somehow, she had come to terms with letting Abby go. That unfortunately didn’t mean that her PTSD was gone. Ellie was honestly surprised that every time she had woken up screaming a runner hadn’t heard her and killed her right then.
As Ellie neared the gate that stood between the wild and Jackson she looked down at her arm. Making sure the bandage was covering the scar of her runner bite she’d gotten in Santa Barbra. Nobody would question a bloody dirty old bandage around her arm but they would definitely question a zombie bite, which could lead to her death.
In Jackson, only Maria, Tommy and Dina knew about the bite... and Joel. Thinking about him still hurt. There’s so much that she wants to tell him but she can’t. If only he was still here.
“Ellie?” An unsure voice called out from the tower next to the gate.
Ellie slowly looked up; the sun was blinding her. She dragged up her arm to shield her eyes against the light. Tommy was standing in the watchtower. Ellie waved at him, Tommy immediately came into motion and disappeared, going down the tower to open the gate.
Ellie was exhausted. When the gate opened, she staggered forwards. Tommy immediately came running out and hugged her.
“I can’t believe you made it! We all thought you were dead”
Ellie gave Tommy a tired grin, “can’t get rid of me that easily”
Tommy helped her walk into the town, being safe had made the adrenaline flowing through her body immediately evaporate, it was replaced by exhaustion. Her legs felt like pudding.
A group surrounded them; Ellie tried looking for Dina but could not find her. Everyone was happy by Ellie’s return but it was too much for her.
Tommy saw this and lead her towards the hospital away from everyone.
When everyone had gone back to their work and Tommy and Ellie were alone, staggering through the town he immediately asked the question Ellie knew he would ask.
“Did you kill her?”
After all, that had been the entire point of her journey, to kill Abby. Get revenge for Joel.
“Yes,” She couldn’t look him into the eyes when she said it. Immediately she felt guilt overwhelm her, but she knew she couldn’t tell him the truth. He’d lose it and might go after Abby himself.
Ellie wondered if this is how Joel felt when he had lied to her about the Fireflies not needing Ellie anymore for a cure...
He must have.
Once at the hospital immediately two nurses rushed over to her, they were teenagers in training to become a doctor one day. A very important job to have in an apocalypse, medics are essential.
They led her to a nearby hospital bed. Tommy excused himself and told her he was going to get her something to eat and drink.
The nurses were soon joined by a doctor. They all examined her wounds and cleaned up her stitches that Ellie had poorly put into her wounds months earlier. They gave her painkillers, a relief Ellie didn’t realize she needed it until the moment she took it. She was used to the pain by now that she had just accepted it. The painkillers numbing the pain felt like it cleared Ellie’s mind as if she could properly think again. But the exhaustion was still there and the only way to get rid of that was to sleep.
The doctor also concluded that she was dehydrated and severely underweight, Ellie could’ve already guessed that.
When it came time to clean up her bandage around her arm Ellie froze.
The doctor was a kind middle-aged woman and the moment she’d taken Ellie’s arm, Ellie immediately pulled it out off her grip and into her body as if to protect it.
“No” she breathed; her voice hoarse from the dryness. Her eyes went wide as the doctor attempted to grab her arm again, this time Ellie shot up from the hospital bed and into a corner. As if she was a lone animal cornered by a predator.
“Sweetie, it’s just to clean. You can’t walk around with a dirty bandage” The woman waved the two nurses away as if to give Ellie some space.
“No” Ellie simply said again, her body was shaking now. She really needed to rest.
“Nora I’ll handle this” a new voice called out behind the woman.
That’s when her legs collapsed and Ellie fell to the ground, the doctor, now named Nora immediately rushed towards her to catch her but Ellie immediately pushed her off as if the touch felt like a burn to her.
Ellie sat on the ground, knees up to her chin, protecting her arm behind it. She was shaking so much; she didn’t want to appear too weak but she couldn’t help it. Her eyes shot up to the newcomer.
Maria was watching her with a concerned look on her face. Tommy stood beside her holding a bottle of water.
“Nora, can you please leave us alone for a moment?” Maria asked the middle-age woman, her eyes still trained on Ellie. Nora nodded and quickly left the room.
“You look terrible” Maria finally said, she walked over and helped Ellie up from the ground.
“Thanks” Ellie answered sarcastically. Tommy handed her the bottle which she immediately opened and starting drinking out of.
“What’s up with the bandage?” Maria asked curiously. Ellie narrowed her eyes; she shot a glance at the door which was closed. It was only the three of them now. She quickly closed the bottle and put it onto the bed next to her.
She then started to unwrap the bandage around her arm. The scar of the bite looked disgusting. It hadn’t been properly cleaned in a while, Ellie had mostly ignored it as it was another reminder of her immunity,
“You really are lucky with your immunity kid,” Tommy told her. Ellie just nodded; she was lucky which was unfair. Why was she the lucky one and not her friend who had died because of a simple runner bite.
“I’ll get you some more acid on my next run out of town” he continued. Maria grabbed a nearby cloth and put some alcohol on it.
“Want to tell us what you’ve been up to?” Maria asked surprisingly kind. She started to clean the scar on Ellie’s arm.
“Nothing much to tell, I tracked down Abby to Santa Barba and killed her” Ellie tried to wave it off, now she was lying to Maria too. This shouldn’t become a habit.
“I get it if you don’t want to talk about it now, just know we’re always here if you need someone” Maria looked up at Ellie. Ellie couldn’t look her into the eyes and instead just looked at the ground, “Yeah, I know”
“We should get you to a house so you can sleep,” Maria said, quickly putting clean bandages around Ellie’s arm.
“You can move into Joel’s house if you’re okay with that.” Tommy suggested, Ellie frowned and looked up at him, “Nobody has moved in there yet?”
Normally when a house became empty because of the passing of an owner it’d be inhabited by new people quite quickly.
“No, it felt wrong to move a stranger into the house.” Tommy admitted, “Joel would want you to have it”
Ellie nodded, “Thank you”.
“You’re all done here, I’ll go tell Nora that we’re bringing you to your house” Maria smiled at Ellie in an attempt to brighten the mood.
Maria moved to exit the room.
“Maria?” Ellie asked. Maria stopped and turned around to look at the young girl, “Yeah?”
“Where’s Dina?”
Ellie didn’t miss the look Maria and Tommy shared before Maria let out a deep sigh, “Dina and JJ came here months ago. They’re doing fine but I suggest you don’t go looking for her”
Ellie frowned at that, “why?”
“You hurt her Ellie. She told me that if you’d show up one day to not tell you into which house, she moved. She just wants to be left alone”
Ellie’s heart broke hearing that “But that’s not fair. I need to talk to her”
Maria actually sent her a look of empathy, “I’m sure she’ll come to you when she’s ready but you need to work on yourself first”
Ellie felt anger boil up in her, “I am fine! I just want to say sorry”
“Ellie you’re not fine, but we will help you” Maria offered. Ellie just shook her head no, she stood up from the bed. “I don’t need your help”
Before either Tommy or Maria could say anything, Ellie had already left the room.
Stuck in her thoughts, her legs carried her to Joel’s house.
The moment she saw it a sense of calmness fell over her. A calmness she hadn’t felt the last time she was there.
She opened the door, the room felt like it was frozen in time. Everything had been left like it was the day Joel had passed away.
Before she knew it, she was laying on Joel’s bed and the sleep rushed over her.
the first weeks back in Jackson were hard. Every night she woke up from nightmares when Maria found out she’d been sleeping badly she gave Ellie sleeping pills which actually helped a little. She’d still wake up from nightmares but less.
Ellie had also been walking around town, hoping to run into Dina and JJ but somehow Dina always managed to avoid her.
Joel’s grave was another place Ellie visited regularly. She’d discovered that talking to Joel’s tombstone, how dumb it may sound. Was actually very calming to her. It felt like she was coming to terms with everything better if she’d tell it to Joel.
Everyone in town knew who Ellie was. She’d heard people whisper to each other when Ellie walked by them in the streets but nobody actually confronted her about anything which she was grateful for.
Every morning she’d show up to the gate in hopes of being allowed out for patrol but every day she was denied. Ellie knew that Maria wouldn’t allow her out until she showed clear signs of being better. Which Ellie hated, but she was slowly gaining more strength and eating healthier. It wouldn’t be long before they’d let her go out again.
It was Maria’s birthday. She’d invited a bunch of people over to her garden. Ellie was one of them. It was already dark outside and the stars shone brightly. Ellie was sitting on a wooden log in front of a huge campfire, Tommy was sitting next to her playing some tunes on an old guitar. Around the campfire were more people, either talking with each other or listening to Tommy playing.
Ellie was staring into the fire listening to the song Tommy was playing. It reminded her of Joel.
“Your turn,” a voice said forcing Ellie out of her thoughts. She frowned as Tommy pushed the guitar into her arms.
“She’s really good, my brother taught her to play,” Tommy told other people around the campfire proudly.
Ellie looked up into the crowd to tell them she can’t play when her eyes fell onto Dina. Ellie froze, she felt her heartbeat into her throat.
Dina was standing on the other side of the campfire, staring at her expectantly.
“Play Through the Valley” Tommy encouraged her.
Ellie quickly looked away from Dina, suddenly feeling ashamed. She pushed the guitar back into Tommy’s arms.
“I can’t play”
“What do you mean you can’t pl-“Tommy started but Ellie held up her hand with the two missing fingers.
“I can’t play. Not anymore” Ellie said again, suddenly Tommy’s eyes widened at the dumb mistake he’d made.
“Oh, I’m sorry Ellie”
Ellie just quickly nodded and looked back to see that Dina had disappeared.
Ellie shot up from the log.
“Where are you going?” Tommy frowned confused.
“I’m going to get a drink, I’ll be back quickly” Ellie lied before rushing off to find Dina. She walked around desperately looking around. After a few minutes of rushing around the entire garden, she’d realized Dina was gone.
Having seen her again took away all the need for Ellie to party. She wasn’t in the mood anymore. Disappointed she walked out the garden, her shoulders hung low.
As she walked through the streets, she’d passed a small playground. It was completely empty as all children were asleep during this time of the night. Ellie walked over to the swings and sat down in one. Slowly swinging back and forth as she stared at the night sky that was filled with many stars.
She’d heard someone approach her but ignored it. Ellie wasn’t into the mood to talk to Tommy or Maria; whichever one had followed her.
The person sat down in the swing next to her, Ellie was about to say that she wanted to be left alone when the person spoke.
“They say you killed her”
Ellie froze, she slowly turned her head towards her side to look at the person. Dina was sitting next to her on the swing, still looking as breathtaking as she always did.
The moment Ellie looked at her, Dina averted her look and just looked straight ahead of her.
“Dina” Ellie breathed as if she couldn’t quite believe she was actually sitting in front of her.
“I really thought you’d died this time” Dina continued; her voice sounded sad.
“I’m sorry for leaving you like that” Ellie told Dina sincerely.
“From what I’ve heard from others, you’ve paid the price for it. You were the talk of the town when you returned”
Ellie looked at Dina who still wasn’t looking at her. “I didn’t kill her”
Dina frowned and finally turned her head to look at Ellie. Their eyes locked, Ellie expected Dina to be angry at that. After all, she had left Dina to kill Abby. Instead, there was a sense of relief on Dina’s face.
“Do you regret not killing her?”
Ellie looked at her hands, her missing two fingers were a reminder of the fight with Abby.
“No.” Ellie was silent for a moment before she continued, “I am glad I found her though. I was so lost and sparing her gave me back a sense of who I am as a person. I needed that”
“I am happy for you”
Ellie looked at Dina again who was still staring at her. “But I am so sorry for leaving you. I didn’t want to hurt you”
Dina nodded, “I wanted to hate you for leaving me and I was convinced I did for a couple of weeks. But I had to acknowledge that you were stuck and the only person who could help you was yourself. I had to let you save yourself”
It was silent for a moment as Ellie soaked in those words.
“I could never hate you but I told you that day that I can’t do this again” Dina finally said, there was a sadness in her voice. Ellie's eyes teared up but she nodded, she’d figured it would be like this from the start.
“I know”
Dina slowly stood up and walked a few steps away. Ellie thought she was leaving but then Dina stopped and looked at her, “But if you can change your mind about killing Abby then you might be able to convince me to change my mind as well”
Ellie’s eyes widened at this, she looked at Dina who had already turned around and was now walking away into the darkness of the night.
Ellie felt hope blossom into her chest, a small smile spread across her face. She then whispered a promise into the darkness;
“I’ll fight for you and JJ until the end”
she then got up and ran to catch up with Dina.
THE END
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Ratio struggles to sleep. He wonders if Aventurine has always been like this. He denies it, because he would know, but would he really? The damned gambler knows how to hide himself, only showing the parts of him the people would want to see. The eccentric and reckless gambler with insane luck.
He gets up from the bed and cracks the door a bit. He walks towards what he assumes is the kitchen, and sees the silhouette of what he presumes a man standing in front of the counter, hunched over.
Ratio squints his eyes and vaguely makes out the blond hair and slim build. “Aventurine?”
Aventurine turns around, startled. “Doc?” He calls out.
“Why are you awake so late in the night?” Ratio asks, walking towards Aventurine. He walks slowly, as if Aventurine is a frightened animal.
Aventurine stands there, in front of the counter, in silence. He chooses not to reply to Ratio, only trying to hold his gaze in the little moonlight spilling through the kitchen windows.
Ratio stands in front of Aventurine. Aventurine has to raise his neck to look at Ratio. Ratio steps back, providing the shorter with a bit of personal space.
“I could ask you the same thing, y’know?” Aventurine says after a beat to break the silence.
“Sleep seems to evade me tonight,” Ratio says without a pause. “Can you not sleep either?”
“I haven’t been able to for maybe years now.” Aventurine feels so vulnerable, so exposed. His defences seem to be cracking, and it's all Ratio’s fault. Aventurine feels so bare laying his heart in front of Ratio, but he can’t seem to stop himself. He cannot seem to fill the cracks in his walls.
“Have you tried medicines?” Ratio asks, his voice low and brows furrowed.
“I’ve tried everything, doc. And nothing has worked.” He smiles a pained smile.
“Do you perhaps… have nightmares?” Ratio looks at Aventurine.
“Yes.”
“I see.” Ratio replies quietly.
The two stand there in silence, the only sounds being outside traffic and their own slow breathing.
“Maybe you should go to bed, doc,” Aventurine says, turning his back to Ratio.
“I’m here to talk. If you need it, of course,” Ratio says, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
Aventurine turns back, a small smile on his face. His eyes soften as he meets Ratio’s gaze. “Thanks, Ratio.”
“But I don’t deserve this.” His words sound so sad. Aventurine has been drowning in self-deprecation for years, and Ratio can’t get him out, no matter how much he yearns to.
“You didn’t deserve the years of trauma, Aventurine.” Ratio’s tone is gentle, his words soft and slow. He takes Aventurine’s hands into his own, cupping them.
“It was a price to pay for Gaiathra’s blessing.” Aventurine cannot seem to meet Ratio’s eyes. Guilt, self-hatred, and anger boil down to numbness. But Ratio makes him feel things he doesn’t know how to feel.
“You didn’t choose to have HER blessing. You were a child, Aventurine. No child should have to go through what you did.” Ratio’s words are somewhat sobering to Aventurine. They seem like they’re dragging Aventurine out of the vast ocean of hatred to the light of land.
Aventurine doesn’t feel the tear roll down his cheek. He stands there, looking down at the floor, his hands in Ratio’s, wondering why he exists.
“....” Aventurine’s silence is loud. Ratio doesn’t know what else to say, because what else can he say?
“Everything comes at a price, Ratio.” His words cut deep. Ratio wants to deny it, but he can’t because he knows it’s true.
A pause, filled with unspoken words and unshed tears. Finally, Ratio breaks the silence. “You have paid the price, Aventurine. Even when you shouldn’t have.”
Ratio pulls Aventurine into a hug. “The scars will always remain, but you have to realise that they’re just scars now.”
Aventurine’s arms remain limply by his side.
“You’re safe now.” Ratio mutters quietly. He pulls away from Aventurine and steps back to give him some space.
“Thank you… Ratio.” Aventurine mumbles quietly, a soft and small smile gracing his delicate features.
“You needn’t thank me, Gambler. I’m only lending you support.” Ratio nodded, a ghost of a smile visible on his visage. “Now come on. Go to bed.”
Aventurine nods in response. Without another word uttered in the silence, he walks towards his room, leaving Ratio alone in the empty and haunting silence.
“Please take care of yourself, Aventurine. I can’t keep seeing you so in pain…” He mutters to himself. He gets himself a glass of water and drinks it. Ratio then quietly, with a heavy heart, walks into his room.
Aventurine locks his bedroom door and slides down to the floor, burying his face in his knees. He feels the cracks, and with a long breath, lets out a shudder of pain. He feels the pain, and it becomes too unbearable. It feels like a knife carving into his flesh, ripping skin and stabbing his organs.
Aventurine has long become numb to pain. To him, pain is weakness. Pain shows the cards he clutches close to his heart, and only drags him down. But now, with what he only can discern as concern, Ratio's words have brought down his walls. The walls Aventurine had tried so hard to build and maintain.
He scoffs at the tears spilling down his face. How did it come to this? How is he falling apart at the slightest show of concern? For all he knows, Ratio could be playing with him.
Yet Aventurine can't help but feel a spark of hope, that maybe Ratio truly cares about him. It's childish, he knows, but he hopes that maybe—just maybe— Ratio feels a sliver of concern for him.
His mind runs through the images of his childhood.
His sister, ruthlessly killed by the Katicans. Kakavasha sitting on his knees on the cold marble, permanently stained with blood from previous slaves, his hands restrained with cold iron chains.
He vividly remembers the hot, smoking iron sinking into the tender flesh of his neck, permanently marking him as an object. He remembers the quiet whimpers he uttered, trying his best to conceal the intense and excruciating pain. He recalls the blood on his hands, all over his body. The blood of thirty-four other slaves he murdered for his own survival. They were just like him—so why did he kill?
Aventurine recalls the feeling of cold, rough and callous hands roaming around his body. He remembers being exposed, his sensitive and virgin skin being tarnished by the disgusting desires of adult men.
“You're so pretty,” they said, touching his thighs.
“You taste so sweet,” They would utter in pleasure.
“Be my whore.” Some of the more crude ones used to say, holding his dick as if he was merely a sex toy.
His whole body is shaking, his sobs muffled by his knees. He hates himself. He hates the way he uses his body to get things done his way. He hates the way his body looks. He hates every scar. He hates looking at himself. Confidence? It's nothing but a façade for him.
How does one call themselves confident if they hate every single part of themselves? How can one love themselves if all they see is the blood on their hands, the impure body, the eyes that have seen everything, and the mind that recalls every detail?
Slave, murderer, toy, whore—what has he not been called? A term of endearment? Even the men used to call him that during their sexual exploits against him, so that holds no weight. A true term of endearment, perhaps. Something that entails love, concern, compassion, all of which he can never achieve, and should never hope to, either.
He loses track of time as he sits there. His cheeks are tear-stained as his body shudders. Aventurine sniffles, trying to catch his breath.
His head hurts from crying and his knees are stuck from being in the same position too long.
He winces as he stands up, his head dizzy and in pain, stumbling towards his bed. He flops onto his soft bed, and succumbs to sleep soon after.
Meanwhile, Ratio lays wide awake on his bed, his head filled with thoughts. He has never seen Aventurine look so utterly terrified or this sad. He's seen the pompousness, the flirty—and fruity side, the way he grins, the way the gambler uses his sharp tongue to trick others.
But Ratio has never seen the way his hands shake under the table, the way he clutches his cards like his life depends on it (perhaps it does), or the pain he holds in those peacock-like eyes.
Ratio doesn’t understand social cues, spending most of his time burying his nose in books and staying cooped up in the library or his room. He remembers the way his mother would ask him to socialise with the other kids, and his vehement opposition.
Yet, with Aventurine, he wants to be closer to him. Ratio calls him just a colleague, and while his rational mind would like to keep it that way, there's the irrational part of him that wishes to be closer to the peacock-esque Avgin. He wants to be Aventurine’s friend, despite all the warning signs his person comes with.
How did this even happen? The ever stoic, and blunt Veritas Ratio wants a friend? It sounds utterly ridiculous. But he knows he's human. And companionship is a human need, existing for millennia.
Ratio cares for the gambler, even if he won't admit it. If he were to admit, it would destroy Ratio’s ego, boost Aventurine’s, and never let the scholar live it down.
He recalls the first time he met the gambler. It was Aventurine’s own congratulatory celebration, for the inauguration of the newest Stoneheart. Ratio sat in a corner, avoiding people as much as he could. Social events were never his forte, and when he actually would go, it was always with someone, or he was compelled. This time around, it was the latter.
He saw the Stoneheart conversing with his colleagues, words slipping off his tongue as smooth as silk. Ratio remembers scoffing at the man. He didn't like the IPC, but was forced to maintain cordiality, much to his dismay. Ratio made eye-contact with the Stoneheart, the bright multicoloured eyes bore into his, reading his soul.
He had retreated to an empty room, quietly reading a book. Ratio had decided he was going to extend his congratulations after most of the crowd had dispersed.
Ratio was absorbed in his own thoughts, until he heard light footsteps approach. “Ah, Dr. Ratio. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” A breathy voice smiled up at him. Ratio opened his eyes to see the blond man staring at him. “I'm Aventurine, the newest of the Ten Stonehearts.”
Ah. So this is the man that has captivated everyone today. “Pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Aventurine.”
Aventurine’s gaze was cold and calculative as if he were stalking prey. “You seem like quite the loner, Doctor…”
Ratio merely rolled his eyes at the statement. “I'm not a loner, as you say. I just like staying away from the stupidity of people.”
Aventurine laughed. “Hm… quite blunt, aren't you?”
“Perhaps so.” Ratio only shrugged. “I offer my congratulations to you, Mr. Aventurine.”
“Thank you.”
Ratio was unsettled by Aventurine’s stony and steady stare. How can someone stare so unblinkingly?
“Are you going to stare at me like that?” Ratio asked. He was severely perturbed by the look Aventurine was giving him.
“No.” Aventurine laughed.
“Do you always stare at people like you’re trying to uncover their deepest and darkest secrets?”
Aventurine shrugged nonchalantly. Seriously, how is he so calm about everything? Ratio always had an aura of authority that commanded respect. Yet Aventurine somehow made him feel smaller than he actually is.
A long pause. Aventurine studied Ratio for a while, and Ratio wanted nothing more to sink into the wall to escape Aventurine’s scrutiny. Yeah, Ratio definitely did not like socialising.
“You're a cautious person. Despite being a person of knowledge, you don't like the thrill of the unknown,” Aventurine said.
“And why do you say that?”
“You don’t like the way I judge you. You also look a lot more guarded when I read you.” Aventurine says that like it’s a fact. “You don’t like the way I do things, do you? From whatever exploits you’ve heard about me, you don’t like the way I make decisions quickly.”
Ratio only grumbled. “You’re reckless.”
“It’s worked out for me. I just have insane luck.” He shrugged in response.
Ratio scoffed. “I'm not going to believe that. Also, aren't you notorious for gambling?”
“Mhm. My luck has never failed me.”
“It will eventually fail you. What are you going to do then?”
Aventurine merely smiled, pulling out a gun from his pocket. Ratio went wide-eyed. “What do you think you're doing?”
Aventurine poured out every bullet, except one. He twirled the gun with ease and shoved it in Ratio’s hand. “My luck will never fail me.”
“You expect me to believe you?” Ratio tried to pull the gun away, but Aventurine only pulled it closer.
“Why not, Doctor?” Aventurine pulls the trigger. Ratio’s hand shook. Aventurine had a wild look in his eyes as if daring the doctor to test the waters.
One click. Two. Three. The gun didn’t fire. Ratio’s mouth hung open in horror. “Life is a grand gamble, and I'm always the final victor.”
He put the gun back into his pocket, and with a sly wink, left the room, leaving the composed Doctor Ratio completely shaken.
Ratio can vividly hear the clock ticking, the minutes passing by. He wants to sleep, but sleep does not come to him. He faintly recalls his mother sitting by his bedside, singing a soft lullaby, lulling him to sleep. He thinks of Aventurine, and for once, hugging someone felt so natural to Ratio.
Ratio wants nothing more than to be next to Aventurine right now, but he doesn't know how much he can do so with Aventurine trying to push him farther away.
He twists and turns. Every position is uncomfortable, and every noise keeps him awake. His thoughts run a mile a minute.
He sits up on the bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Ratio steps out of his bed and lightly stumbles to the attached bathroom. He turns on the lights, the white marble blinding him with its reflection, the gold-lined accents adding a touch of luxury to the already expensive bathroom.
He washes his face, letting the cool water seep into his skin, calming his mind and slowing his breathing. Ratio looks in the mirror, staring at his reflection.
He sees his father in himself. The level-headed, no nonsense attitude, and self-control. But Ratio resembles his mother, too. His eyes are like honey, just like his mother. Ratio’s impulsive, much like his mother.
He snaps out his thoughts. His parents are proud of him, surely. And maybe he'll visit them sometime.
He walks out of the bathroom and looks to his left. He sees a door and presumes it's the balcony. He walks to the door and gently opens it. Ratio feels the cool night air glaze his skin.
The skyscrapers and city lights of Pier Point glitter below him, the hustle and bustle of the mega city giving him a reprieve from his thoughts.
Surprisingly, even geniuses need a break from thinking.
Pier Point's skies seem dark, forecasting possible storms.
Despite being a massive city, Pier Point has clear, bright skies. Ratio vaguely makes out the stars littering the sky. The millions of constellations, the millions of solar systems. It's a big universe out there, but right now, there's just Veritas Ratio, Aventurine, and the three expressive snack cats of the house. Just them.
Ratio has never believed in Fate, being a man of science and logic. But despite everything, he came across the one person in this universe who can make him falter. The one person that makes his stone-cold persona crack, the one who sees Veritas Ratio, instead of Doctor Ratio.
What is he going to do with the gambler?
Ratio sits on the soft, cushioned seat on the balcony. He focuses his mind on the noise around him, trying his best to keep Aventurine out of his thoughts, but to no avail. Aventurine always creeps back into Ratio’s head. And Ratio doesn’t force it out either.
Ratio runs his hand through his indigo hair, deep in thought. The night gives him repose from his life.
The stars glitter in the sky, reminding Ratio about the sheer expanse of the universe, and despite everything, Fate has brought Ratio close to Aventurine.
He closes his eyes, a sigh escaping his lips. He sits there, just thinking, for a good hour or so. Eventually, he stands up and walks back into the room, shutting the glass door behind him. He chooses not to close the curtains, to let the moonlight spill through the glass. He turns on the air conditioning and sits on the bed.
He mumbles to himself, grumbling about Aventurine and his well-being, but gets under the covers and shuts his eyes, trying to put himself to sleep.
Yet, his sleep is restless, with him waking up randomly. Ratio resorts to just staring at the ceiling until sleep comes to him, instead of Ratio chasing after sleep. Ratio doesn’t have dreams, and even if he does, they’re always mundane and boring, much like him. If he dreams, he dreams about reading, physics, science. Essentially, things that would bore the fuck out of normal humans. The only anomalous dream he would have would be him receiving the Divine Gaze of Nous. And even then, this was extremely rare, happening only once or twice a year.
On the other hand, Aventurine’s sleep is plagued by nightmares. He wakes up at odd hours, cold sweat making his expensive pajamas stick to his body despite the cold air of the air conditioner. He swallows a glass of water, before trying to sleep again. Yet, his nightmares are parasitic to him, clinging onto his mind until he loses himself.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
天色已晚，太阳的余晖将要消散。黄昏的风带走并行的骑手身上多余的热量，此时骑马走在亚诺尔隆德的街道上非常自在。
翁斯坦漫不经心地拍拍马脖子，比起限制颇多的城内，他更期待先去找点吃的，再去兵营找老伙计比试一场。
“你说有急事，到底什么事还要换礼服？”
穿着蓝色束腰外衣的狼骑士玩味地笑笑，“给你找个贵族情人。”
“什么？别开玩笑了！”翁斯坦差点从马鞍上翻下去，“我本来要找鹰眼，你说有急事我才来，没正事我就调头回去了，明明你也觉得和贵族小姐相处麻烦。”
“是真的有事。”
“什么事？”
“领你去见公主，两个都能见，你想看谁？我帮你安排。”
“我真走了。”
阿尔特留斯收敛了一点，意识到翁斯坦还在为公爵遇刺的事情烦心，就像略感不安的黄蜂骑士一样。简单解释翁斯坦可能封地的信息后，他不愿意这种扫兴的活动影响同僚的心情，转而谈起了宴会的事。
上百蜂蜡蜡烛照亮城堡的偏厅，燃烧的香气让这里显得雅致而私密。大厅内的水晶吊灯散发着温暖的光芒，交谈声交织成一片，空气中弥漫着香料与烛火的味道。
葛温艾薇雅女士拥有这场宴会的秩序，她举重若轻地调动气氛，为宴会保驾护航。不过，这位最优雅的女主人始终关注着自己的妹妹，生怕再出乱子。
此时此刻，她的妹妹正坐在有些偏僻的角落，和其他人一起听一个男人品评油画。
“……画家显然对何以构成女性魅力有偏颇，”评论家满足地看着公主的微笑和礼貌的点头，认为自己收获了一位最称职的倾听者，甚至是崇拜者。“这幅画里女神侧卧姿势的也许足够诱惑，可这爱之女神缺乏庄严之美，甚至可以说完全没有，更无法让我想到尊重，无法联系上爱情……”
然而艾薇雅女士从妹妹的细微表情和手指的运动里意识到：她处于爆发边缘。画是葛温德林的作品，曾被喜悦地悄悄展示给长姐。而眼下批评家的兴奋谁都一眼能看穿。不能再继续了，她吸了口气，“葛温德林，到我这里来。”
葛温德林微笑着冲几位男士点头，似乎在为自己的离开感到抱歉，随后她快步走向自己的长姐。
在罗德兰的审美里，葛温德林算不上传统美人，她没能和艾薇雅一样继承母亲柔美温暖的发色和丰满的身材，即使线条柔美却因为苍白瘦弱显得格外冷淡而生涩。不过，就算毫无卖弄风情的意味，异性还是会主动把目光投向她。
赶到她身边时，艾薇雅轻轻捏了她的手提醒她注意礼貌，在得到一个点头作为回应后，把她重新安置在年轻人中间。随后继续履行自己作为女主人的义务去了。这个时候，狼骑士才带着翁斯坦在管家的引领下走进这间堂皇的偏厅。
“亚尔特留斯伯爵，您的到来让我们感到愉快。”艾薇雅亲昵地笑着说，“我之前还在想您是否会来，如果没有您这样客人的陪伴，我们得怀疑自己是否会尽兴。”
“我深表歉意，随时为您效劳，我的女士。”狼骑士俯下头颅吻了吻艾薇雅的手。
“您总是来得晚了那么一点，”艾薇雅女士用扇子遮住半边脸，“请您为我介绍这位英俊的骑士吧，您的帮助至关重要。”
“翁斯坦，我们在外征战的狮子骑士，今年刚从西边回来。”
“西征的骑士团？”艾薇雅轻呼一声，“我曾经遥遥看过胜利的行军，那好像还是几天之前的事。”然而翁斯坦对她毫无头绪，他只是礼貌地笑了笑，在表达感激后没有多说话。
“您的朋友等了一阵了，尤其是您的那位同僚，这位骑士就交给我吧。”艾薇雅对亚尔特留斯点点头，轻轻向翁斯坦行了屈膝礼。
“亚尔特留斯爵士是我的朋友，您在这可不用担心失礼，来吧，让我向境内的几位骑士介绍你——哦，喝点酒吧，您尽可以自在一点。”
“谢谢您，女士，但对我来说现在可能还不是喝酒的时候，”翁斯坦笑了笑，“您组织的确实是完美的酒会，但我在外面忙碌了一天，真的需要一些食物。”
翁斯坦的话让艾薇雅咧嘴一笑，他神情坦然，显然不是在装模作样。
“亚尔特留斯没说清楚就让你来了？真欠考虑，但这位热心直率的绅士一定是希望你早点和王国的骑士们认识，他很关心您。厨房会有吃的，我让人领您去。”
艾薇雅女士轻声唤来自己的妹妹——她似乎又在一场爆发边缘，这孩子还是不适应社交场合，太尖锐了一些，也藏不住自己的意见，也许还是得再缓一缓教导她的速度。
“这是翁斯坦先生，远征军的狮子骑士，你领着他去厨房，让厨师做一点翁斯坦先生喜欢的。”
她又转头看向翁斯坦，“这是我的妹妹，葛温德林，她会领您去厨房。”
葛温德林微笑着行了一礼，“翁斯坦先生，请跟我来。”
翁斯坦看着葛温德林光洁的额头和优美的肩颈，感觉脸上有点发烧。除了意识到她举止优雅，作为一名施法者，他还能察觉面前这位葛温德林小姐不高兴。她的嘴确实在笑，但眼角一点笑意也没有，望向他的蓝眼睛有一瞬间称得上冰凉。他微微皱了皱眉头，但很快放松下来，没再多说什么。只不过，出于礼貌，他也不愿意再麻烦她。
“叫我翁斯坦就好，”他也鞠了一躬，看向艾薇雅女士，“不用麻烦这位小姐，请一位侍者就可以了。”
“您是我们的贵客，请不要推辞了。”见她态度坚决，翁斯坦也没再推阻，跟随葛温德林的指引穿过三五成群的客人，离开了这里。在离开前，翁斯坦情不自禁多看了两眼女神油画——这是因为她侧躺在睡榻上，身体近乎全裸，只遮住了一点。
葛温德林见翁斯坦看愣了神，轻轻跺脚提醒他，他脸上更红，急忙跟上。
两人沉默地走了一阵，在空无一人的走廊上，葛温德林突然停下，盯着翁斯坦的眼睛问，“你觉得那副爱神诺玛像如何？”
“啊？那是爱与美之神诺玛？”
葛温德林微笑着点头，但翁斯坦注意到她的左手握拳，关节发白，恐怕是比一开始被自己的姐姐叫来带他去厨房还要生气，显然再不迅速反应他会失去面前这位女士的好感，可他也不是什么艺术鉴赏家。
“我一开始认为她是南方王国神话里的的圣母，呃……”
“圣母怎么会近乎赤裸？”
“这…这样，是我了解不够多，”翁斯坦脸红了，但还是在尽力补救，“她的女性特征很明显，长相也非常有风情，但是眼神非常温柔和遥远，像是远方传说里的母神。我是这么感觉的。”
在翁斯坦有些不自在的等待中，葛温德林却突然冲他笑。
“有些陌生的说法，先前我从未听闻。”
“我不懂绘画，这只是我的感觉罢了，做不了准。”
“说不定画家会赞同你的意见，”葛温德林已经走到地方，取下了门闩，“来吧翁斯坦先生，您想吃什么都可以说，厨师会满足您的。”
厨房没人。
葛温德林站得更直，这回握着烛台的手都有些颤抖，她始终没有回头看翁斯坦一眼。
“在战场补给也不一定能准时送到，这不碍事。葛温德林小姐，我们回去吧。”
葛温德林的声音比之前变得更冰冷，“我会为您准备，这里有现成的食材，只要您不嫌弃。”
这是她这辈子第几次做饭？
翁斯坦连忙说，“我已经不饿了，怎么能够劳烦您。”
“请您坐在边上等候，不用再多说什么了。”
翁斯坦莫名奇妙服从了命令，心惊胆颤地看着葛温德林穿着礼服开始切割厨房里剩下的小麦面包。
……
翁斯坦看着面前的面包和上面码好的奶酪和熏肉，他没想到事情会发展成这样，只是想吃点东西却让领主的女儿为自己下厨。考虑到她的身份，他最终还是没有提醒她应该把东西放进烤箱再烘烤一遍，等她走了再用烤炉也不迟。
“非常感谢您的帮助，把我留在这里就好，艾薇雅女士一定还在等您。”
葛温德林却出人意料地留在厨房，打量着里头不熄的烛光，“正相反，翁斯坦先生，我不想参加这种晚会，您帮了我。”
“因为你不想听有权势的男人们吹牛？”翁斯坦不再盯着盘子里的食物，抬头看向葛温德林。
“您也明白这一点，真是出我意料，我还以为您会是一个我父亲一样的演讲家。”葛温德林的笑容变得更讥诮和真实，不再是之前那样高贵的木偶。
“别让谈话耽误了正事，请用吧，翁斯坦先生。”
翁斯坦在心中叹了口气，认命地用刀把叠起来的面包和夹心切成小块，忽略肠胃的抗议开始大口吞咽冷硬的食物，可是，葛温德林却一直盯着他。
“还有什么问题吗？”他停下来，用手帕擦了擦嘴，很好，没什么残渣和奇怪的东西，可能是自己吃太快了她看不下去。
“我也半天没吃饭。”葛温德林冷淡地说，眼神可疑地飘过了食物。
“那您也吃一半吧。”
“很遗憾，我不能。”
“为什么？”
“只有已婚女士才能在男士面前自由地吃东西打嗝调情和放屁。”
翁斯坦笑出了声，“您的意见很犀利，但我从未听过这些约束。”这是真的，因为他是平民出身，地位来自葛温王的封赏。
“翁斯坦先生，也许您对罗德兰宫廷的女士准则没有什么了解。在这里，女性长辈会告诉年轻女士们‘男人们想要胃口小又没见识的姑娘，用崇拜和礼貌的姿态说你可真了不起。如果男人意识到你更有见识，他们就不会娶你了。’现在，您应该明白了吧？”
不再保持笑容的葛温德林显得沮丧又高傲，翁斯坦明白了这里的规矩，但他仍然保有一些疑问。
“我从没听过装傻一辈子的道理，这可是间谍也没有的能力。”
“结了婚男人们后悔也晚了，教会可不同意。”
“哈哈哈哈哈哈！”翁斯坦大笑起来，意识到面前的公主是个妙人。
“笑什么，先生。您饿了，大可以在晚会上请女主人为您解决这个问题，可我呢？如果我这么干，所有人都会知道我的胃口是宫廷厨师也没法填满的，这公平吗？”
“当然不，我也解决不了这个大问题，但是，”翁斯坦耸耸肩，“您要和我结婚吗？”
“请自重！您在说些什么不着调的话？”葛温德林抓着礼服裙挪开一步，似乎思量着怎么用烛台对付他。
“既然您不打算和我结婚，那为什么不直接开饭呢？我看不出有什么顾及形象的必要，就算您把这个厨房里所有的东西吃了，我不说出去也没人知道。”他拨走自己碰过的部分，把盛着面包片的托盘推到葛温德林面前，轻松地站起来，“我去再做点自己的，请放心，我会严格保守秘密。”
翁斯坦快步走开，重新烧旺烤炉。随后他切掉剩下的面包中干燥变硬的部分，把奶酪和熏肉切片，又摸出临时发现的腌橄榄切薄码好，把成品送进烤箱。独特的香气弥漫开来，奶酪融化并且渗进面包内部，趁着还有空，他用平底锅煎了两个鸡蛋，撒上盐和胡椒简单调味。几分钟后，翁斯坦开始继续自己未完成的用餐。
“您刚才从未告诉我我做的面包是这个味道。”葛温德林叹了口气，面前的食物她只尝了一口就被放在一边。她眼巴巴地看着他端着的热面包，最终冷哼一声移开了视线。“您请用吧。”
翁斯坦开始觉得她也没那么难相处，而且还有一点可怜。他切了三分之一面包留给自己，剩下的全部放在葛温德林面前，她好像脸红了点，但厨房的暖光并不能帮翁斯坦观察得多仔细。很快，他吃掉了留给自己的那部分面包，而她默默地吃，他默默地看，一直到葛温德林优雅地把剩下的食物全部吃完。
“我意识到面包似乎都进了您的肚子。”翁斯坦调侃道。
“的确，可这将是秘密，翁斯坦先生。”葛温德林又微笑起来，“远征军的骑士美德都到哪里去了？您需要一个我的吻来唤醒它吗？还是您想解开我的束腰？”
“您别这样！我现在还不考虑结婚！“翁斯坦急忙出声阻止，怎么对方吃口自己的面包就变成要接吻和做爱了？这都是什么和什么。“您也吃饱了，我们赶紧回去吧。”
“不需要，你回去了艾薇雅姐姐一定会派人来找我回去。走，去花园坐会，没有骑士精神的翁斯坦先生。”
翁斯坦也不知道还能说点什么对付她，也许是厨房的温度让他头昏脑胀，鬼使神差地，他答应了公主的建议。
两人就这样在夜晚无人的花园对着默默地坐了一会，夜晚的凉风很快把两人脸上的热度带走，葛温德林的微笑似乎说明她得意于自己扳回一局。
远处传来马靴的足音，声音越来越近，葛温德林迅速挺直腰背，沉静地坐在翁斯坦的对面，用腰间别着的折扇挡住了自己的下半张脸。翁斯坦迅速起身，看向了来人的方向。一个高大的人影从公爵魔法培育的水晶灌木后显现出来，那是国王葛温。
“哦，翁斯坦，原来你在这。”他微笑着说，看了一眼自己的小女儿，嘴角浮现了一丝玩味的微笑。“我的女儿，晚上好。你有一个好眼光，这是我们的猎龙骑士。”
国王一看就想歪了，而翁斯坦也不知道该如何解释。
紧接着，国王用征战在外的骑士才懂的伊扎里斯方言说道，“你今晚亲到她了吗？只是想要我的这个女儿，直接告诉我就好。”
翁斯坦屏住呼吸看了她一眼，难以想象葛温会当着自己女儿——一位皇家公主的面说这么无礼的话，这绝对足够她打面前的两人各自一巴掌。葛温德林困惑地对着他们，这让他放下心来。
“陛下，我绝无冒犯的意思……”依然是伊扎利斯方言。
“别害臊，我都明白，逗女士们很有意思，”葛温点点头，“不用理会我的打扰，做你想做的，第一次看见你主动接近年轻女孩，享受时光吧，年轻人。”
翁斯坦和葛温德林向国王道别，他思索着应该怎么对公主解释刚才的事，葛温有了先入为主的想法，这可麻烦了。但是向面前的公主解释刚才的所有对话，告诉她葛温陛下怎样地不把她的婚姻当成需要慎重考量的大事也不妥当。这太伤人心，也有离间王室亲情的嫌疑，有些话，似乎还是不说为妙。
“葛温德林小姐，今晚相处得很愉快。感谢您的款待，也请您原谅我的冒犯。时候不早，请您允许我告辞。”他站起身，想起狼骑士暗示葛温要他去北边，工作本就繁忙，还得抽空研究可能封地的情报，他不由得又感到一阵头疼。
在他思虑这些的时候，葛温德林已经从容地走到他的身前。距离似乎有点过近了，翁斯坦不明所以，后退了一步，终于再次把注意力交还给面前的银发女士。
葛温德林笑容灿烂的离他更近了一点，“那么，你想要吻我吗？[伊扎利斯方言]”
说完，她用力地甩了他一巴掌，拿起烛台迅速离开了花园。
……
当葛温的意见抵达她的耳边，一切已无从更改。
国王已经为她定下婚事——和翁斯坦。他们俩得一起去北方，面对龙，面对北风和彼此。
葛温德林随侍者指引走近车队里分配给她的马车，翁斯坦倚在车边，举动没有任何异样，但那一巴掌翁斯坦显然没有忘记。
“尊敬的复仇女神，”翁斯坦说，“下次想打人请用右手，您左手的订婚戒指有防护魔法。”
“那取决于你的行动，狮子骑士。”她踏进马车时，发现座位边放着整盒巧克力。
“北风会吹散不必要的的虚伪教条，您现在可以听懂双关语，也不必再为束腰放弃食物。”翁斯坦说，“但请记住，这趟旅行并不安全，北方也一样。”
葛温德林盯着他挑起眉毛，第一次感觉去北边不完全是坏事。车轮碾过王城的石板路，她拉上车帘，咬开巧克力脆壳，预感到这场婚姻未必比社交季难熬。
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
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You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Tag für Tag, Nacht für Nacht Vegeta dachte nur an ihn.
Seit ihrem ersten Kampf war Goku für Vegeta mehr als nur ein Rivale. Er war die Sonne, die niemals erlosch, der Schatten, der ihn verfolgte. Vegeta, der stolze Prinz der Saiyajin, hatte sein ganzes Leben damit verbracht, der Stärkste zu sein. Doch dann kam er – Kakarott. Ein einfacher Krieger, aufgewachsen auf einem friedlichen Planeten, und doch … unaufhaltsam.
Vegeta kämpfte. Er trainierte bis zur völligen Erschöpfung. Seine Gedanken waren ein endloser Kreislauf: „Ich muss stärker sein als er.“ Doch je härter er kämpfte, desto weiter entfernte sich Goku. Nicht aus Arroganz. Nein. Goku war einfach … frei. Er jagte die Stärke nicht, er lebte sie. Und genau das machte ihn für Vegeta unerreichbar.
Nächte vergingen, in denen Vegeta nicht schlief. Mahlzeiten blieben unberührt. Was war das alles wert, wenn er nicht über Kakarott triumphieren konnte? Er war der König ohne Krone, der Kämpfer ohne Sieg.
Doch tief in ihm wusste Vegeta es. Vielleicht ging es nicht mehr darum, Goku zu übertreffen. Vielleicht war es die Jagd nach ihm, die ihn überhaupt am Leben hielt.
„Gebunden an die Sterne“
Vegeta hatte alles geopfert. Blut. Stolz. Jahre des unermüdlichen Trainings.
Und doch war Goku immer dort – vor ihm, unerreichbar. Es war nicht nur ein Kampf um Stärke. Es war ein Kampf um Bedeutung. Vegeta war der Prinz der Saiyajin, der Erbe eines stolzen Volkes, das nicht weinte, nicht zögerte. Doch in den langen Nächten, in denen er nicht schlief, in den Momenten der Stille nach einem gescheiterten Versuch, Goku zu übertreffen, wurde ihm etwas bewusst:
Seine ganze Existenz war an diesen Mann gebunden.
Goku war die Sonne, die nie unterging. Vegeta war der Mond, immer in seinem Schatten, immer auf der Jagd nach Licht. Ein Teil von ihm hasste es. Ein Teil von ihm wollte nur … frei sein. Aber konnte er das jemals?
Er sah in den endlosen Himmel. Sterne, die nie miteinander kollidierten, aber sich dennoch auf ewig umkreisten. Vielleicht war das sein Schicksal. Vielleicht war es gar nicht mehr eine Frage des Sieges. Vielleicht war es einfach das Einzige, was ihn vor dem endgültigen Fallen bewahrte.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Jaskier’s days fall into a pattern, and to his surprise, it’s a pleasant one. He spends his mornings working with Ciri, who is bright and enthusiastic and energetic, and he has to work hard to keep her interested, but when he does, she excels. His afternoons are given over either to composing or to helping Triss in the stillroom while she tells him stories of the White Wolf’s exploits or to pestering anyone who looks friendly for stories - and a surprising number of people, Witchers and humans alike, seem to take pleasure in indulging him. Almost every evening, he’s summoned to the White Wolf’s side to sing for Ciri, and after the White Wolf takes her off to put her to bed, he sings for the rest of the hall, taking requests from Witchers and sorceresses and human warriors and servants alike. Once he gets a lute, he’s much less shy about making a little noise, and the Witchers seem to like it, if the way they clap along and bellow choruses and demand more songs is any measure of their approval.
He starts to learn the rhythms of life in Kaer Morhen. Groups of Witchers go out every few weeks to roam the lands the White Wolf claims, and return again months later with news of small skirmishes or justice imposed or a new group of refugees settled. Wagons of tribute arrive every month or so and are distributed with astonishing fairness among Witchers and humans alike - even
Jaskier
comes in for some of the bounty, a handful of bolts of silk cloth and a very nice viol that no one else cares to claim, ink and parchment and a fur cloak that helps a great deal with the bitter cold of a Kaer Morhen winter. Reports come in regularly of trouble - monsters or raids or just humans being stupid - and the White Wolf sends out bands to deal with it or - much more rarely - goes himself. Having sorceresses around is
very
useful: the Witchers can go to the site of the trouble, or fairly near it, by portal, and often return the same way. And in between, the Witchers practice their weapons and the servants keep food on the table and everything ticks over like a well-made clock. Jaskier finds himself fit into it like another cog - an odd size, perhaps, but one that fits with Ciri and Triss and maybe Yennefer and Eskel and even - possibly - the White Wolf himself.
Because Jaskier spends more time around the White Wolf than he would have expected. He still
eats
at the end of the high table, but he’s summoned up to the White Wolf’s side nearly every night, and as long as his songs aren’t too inaccurate, the White Wolf seems to put up with them - maybe even to
enjoy
them. He only gripes when a description of a monster or a battle isn’t correct. Jaskier makes time to corner Eskel or Lambert or any of the other Witchers who will talk to him - there are quite a few, actually, of multiple schools - and ask for details about monsters, and raids the fairly extensive library for more information, so that the corrections grow rarer and the White Wolf’s frown less frequent.
And then there’s the other thing. Jaskier had thought it was a joke, the suggestion that he might end up teaching court etiquette to the White Wolf and his closest advisors, but he’s been in Kaer Morhen about a week when a lad knocks on the door to his rooms in the middle of the afternoon and informs him he’s wanted in the White Wolf’s office. Swallowing apprehension, Jaskier presents himself at the doorway, and Eskel ushers him in with a friendly smile.
“Etiquette,” the White Wolf rumbles from his place leaning against the smaller table. He’s glowering, as usual, but Jaskier doesn’t think it’s because of
him
. “King Vizimir wants to meet. What do we need to know?”
Jaskier thinks that maybe he should feel bad about giving the White Wolf and his inner council a swift course in Redanian etiquette and all the gossip and advice he can remember about the Redanian court - maybe he should feel like he’s betraying his people - but they betrayed him first, and he’s far, far more welcome and valued here in Kaer Morhen than he ever was in Redania. He tells the White Wolf everything he can think of, from King Vizimir’s favorite wines to the feuds among the nobles to the politest way to tell someone to fuck off. The White Wolf listens quietly, golden eyes fixed on Jaskier; Eskel and old Vesemir take notes.
Jaskier doesn’t realize that it was a test until about a week later, when he’s summoned again. “Went to Redania,” the White Wolf says. He looks...less tense, Jaskier realizes. He hadn’t even realized the White Wolf
was
tense, but there’s a looseness to his shoulders that wasn’t there the last time. “Your advice worked.”
“It did?” Jaskier asks, startled, and then grins. “Of course it did! Did you scare the shit out of everyone, White Wolf? Please tell me you did.”
“Of course he did,” Eskel sighs. “And I got to be the diplomatic one.
Again
. One of these days I’m going to make you do the talking, Wolf.”
“Hm,” says the White Wolf, with a little quirk to his lips. “Unlikely.”
“Bastard,” Eskel grumbles, clearly not meaning it very much.
“Temeria,” the White Wolf says to Jaskier. “What do you know?”
“Um,” Jaskier says, and wracks his brain, and starts talking.
After that he’s summoned every week - regularly enough that he starts expecting it - to talk about court etiquette or noble gossip or just the history of wherever the White Wolf is interested in this time. Sometimes it’s in preparation for a diplomatic excursion - as diplomatic as the White Wolf ever gets, at any rate - sometimes it just seems to be curiosity. Whatever it is, the White Wolf asks his questions and then listens closely to every word Jaskier speaks, golden eyes fixed on the bard. And if the information ends up being useful, the White Wolf
tells
him so, gives him a nod of approval and a gruff, “Came in handy,” or, “Worked like you said,” that makes Jaskier feel like he’s just won a bardic competition. There’s something deeply intoxicating about having the White Wolf’s attention and approval - about having those golden eyes look right through him and then, each time, away again without burning him to the bone.
Thinking he was about to be killed wasn’t appealing at all, but the
hint
of threat, when Jaskier is growing ever surer that he isn’t actually in any danger at all, is astonishingly compelling. Jaskier finds himself wanting those golden eyes on him as often as possible - wanting to see if he can coax a smile, even a little one, from those glowering features, or play a song entertaining enough to make the White Wolf clap or laugh or even, if Jaskier is ever unfairly lucky, perhaps sing along.
Jaskier doesn’t want to
tame
the White Wolf. That would be a very, very stupid dream, and almost certainly end in his untimely and unpleasant death. He just wants to…
Well, he wants to be one of the people who is allowed to tease, to touch, to laugh with the White Wolf and be teased and touched in turn. Yennefer can: she drapes herself over the White Wolf’s shoulder, touches his wrist to get his attention, toys with his hair. Eskel can: he slings his arm over the White Wolf’s shoulders, kicks his ankle when he’s exasperated, arm-wrestles with him for the entertainment of the Wolf table. Ciri, of course, can climb all over her father and hang off his arms and braid flowers into his hair if she cares to.
Jaskier wants...too much, probably, he’s always wanted too much, aimed too high, dreamed too big. He wants to be part of the inner circle, not for the power - what does he want with power? - but because the White Wolf is like a magnet, drawing people in, and Jaskier...Jaskier knows how an iron filing feels, now.
But he’s not an idiot, so he tutors Ciri and sings at supper and gives advice about various courts, and helps Triss and makes friends in the baths and flirts cheerfully with anyone who cares to flirt back, and makes himself a place - not such a bad place, either - in the White Wolf’s halls, and tells himself very firmly to be content.
Really, apart from his growing attraction to the White Wolf - which Jaskier is ignoring as hard as he can - the only problem with living in Kaer Morhen is the celibacy. People will
flirt
with him, yes, but the Witchers consider him off-limits because the White Wolf claimed him, and the sorceresses are frankly a little intimidating, and it’s just
rude
to hit on servants, which leaves Jaskier alone with his trusty right hand and a really distressing number of fantasies starring the Warlord of the North and his piercing golden eyes.
Setting that aside, though, Kaer Morhen becomes - well, becomes a
home
far more quickly than Jaskier would have guessed it could. It’s no Oxenfurt, full of people who speak the same languages of music and academia - though the sorceresses are all quite well-educated, and Kaer Morhen does have a surprisingly good library, albeit mostly on the topics of monsters and how to kill them - but after the first few months, most of the people of Kaer Morhen seem to
like
Jaskier, to be happy to see him, to enjoy his singing. He feels
welcome
here, in this great dark castle full of inhuman warriors, far more welcome than he ever did in Lettenhove.
*
It’s been almost a year since Jaskier was brought to Kaer Morhen when the diplomatic envoys from Redania arrive. Jaskier knew they were coming - everyone did, they’re escorting a caravan of tribute from King Vizimir that ought to actually have things the White Wolf
wants
in it, and while they’re in Kaer Morhen they’re going to be trying to hammer out a treaty that will leave King Vizimir in charge of the third of Redania that he still holds. (Jaskier is only a little nastily smug about the fact that sacrificing him to the White Wolf gained Redania exactly nothing except the White Wolf thinking the nobles of Redania were
utterly
useless instead of mostly useless - eh, what is Jaskier thinking, he’s a
lot
nastily smug about that.)
Jaskier has decided that the welcoming supper for the Redanian envoys is the
perfect
time to debut the newest song in his song cycle. The Witchers have been quite appreciative of his efforts thus far:
The Siege of Ard Carraigh
got riotous applause,
The Wolf in Caingorn
got the entire Griffin table up on their feet stomping along, and
The Fall of Hagge
has been requested eight times since Jaskier first sang it barely a month ago. Even the White Wolf seems to approve of the songs, and once - only once, but such a glorious moment that it’s burned into Jaskier’s memory - Jaskier heard him humming a snatch of the White Wolf theme that runs through all the songs. Clearly, the song cycle - Jaskier’s going to call it
The Wolf Rising
, maybe, he hasn’t decided yet - is pleasing to his lord, so it’s only right for Jaskier to sing the newest song in it for such honored guests! The fact that the song is
Ghelibol Burning
, about the destruction of a city which tried to oust all its elven inhabitants and was subsequently burnt to the ground by angry Witchers, and which just
happens
to be in Redania, is
purely
a coincidence.
So yes, Jaskier knows the Redanian envoys are coming, and he’s chosen his outfit and his song and taught Ciri how to be as polite as she cares to be and briefed the White Wolf and his inner council on Redanian mores so that
they
can be as polite as they care to be, and he’s pretty sure he’s ready for this.
That surety drains away as the Redanian envoys walk warily into the hall, and Jaskier sees who leads them.
His father.
Oh
fuck
no.
Aubry reaches over to grab Jaskier’s forearm. “What’s the matter?” he asks, quietly, under the sound of Eskel making polite diplomatic noises at the envoys.
Jaskier quite likes Aubry, even if the other man is quieter than the fucking White Wolf himself, because Aubry has never been less than kind to him. But this - Aubry, like most of the inhabitants of Kaer Morhen, doesn’t know that Jaskier was sent as tribute. That he was thrown away, a sacrifice that cost nothing, by his own kin. “Nothing,” Jaskier hisses. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
“Your heartbeat kicked up and you reek of fear,” Aubry says, which is more words than Jaskier usually gets out of him in a week. “What’s the matter?”
“...I know one of the envoys,” Jaskier says, hedging the truth carefully. Witchers, he has learned, can smell lies. “We don’t get on.”
“Oh,” Aubry says, and lets go of his arm. To Jaskier’s surprise, he adds, “Don’t worry. You’re the White Wolf’s. Nobody touches you.”
That
is
surprisingly reassuring, actually. In a ‘who is scarier’ contest, the White Wolf wins against Jaskier’s father without any effort at all. And if Jaskier’s father tossed him away without a second thought, the White Wolf
does
value him. Maybe not as much as he does his Wolf Witchers or the sorceresses or even the human warriors who have joined his cause, but he
does
value Jaskier. He does. So fuck the Count de Lettenhove anyhow.
Jaskier’s father introduces himself, and as he bows, Jaskier, watching Eskel and the White Wolf, sees both of them go still. Sees Eskel’s amiable face turn for a split second to stone, and the White Wolf’s glower get just that hair more intimidating. Jaskier’s not the only one who catches that tiny moment, either: all along the high table, the Wolf Witchers grow tense, their friendly banter dying away to a quiet watchfulness. The head of their pack is, for some reason, displeased by the envoys. So is his right hand man. Therefore,
something
is wrong.
Jaskier’s father doesn’t seem to notice the rising tension. He reads out the letter King Vizimir has sent, all diplomatic fluff and folderol, and Eskel leads the little crowd of envoys to a table that has been brought in especially for them, between the high table and the rest of the hall. The White Wolf refused to displace any of his usual tablemates to seat the diplomats, and though Jaskier pointed out how rude that was going to be, he’s bitterly grateful now. His father is seated facing away from him, which is also an unexpected boon.
The food is, as always, both simple and delicious. Jaskier can see that the envoys are taken back by everything - the simplicity, the tastiness, the fact that the White Wolf eats the same food as his warriors, the rowdiness of the Witchers at their long tables, the presence of Ciri in her seat at the White Wolf’s left hand. Rumors of the White Wolf’s daughter don’t leave the fortress. Jaskier takes care never to even
hint
at her presence in his songs. She’s been the best kept secret of Kaer Morhen, protected not just by walls and Witchers but by silence.
Now, of course, the Redanian envoys have seen her, and her hair and her place at the White Wolf’s side make her true identity unmistakeable. Jaskier gives it a month after the envoys return home before the first marriage offers start arriving. The White Wolf’s daughter is a prize beyond price. He warned the White Wolf and Ciri both about the possibility, back when they first heard the envoys were on their way.
“Anyone can
ask
,” the White Wolf had growled. “Ciri marries when she likes, who she likes, and anyone who
doesn’t
like it can meet my swords.”
It’s probably going to take some very blunt rejections for the kings and dukes and emperors of the world to figure out that the White Wolf
means
that, but Jaskier has every faith that Ciri will grow up wild and free, and marry when and as she pleases, with her terrifying father - and her father’s terrifying army - to protect her. Not to mention her
own
rather startling abilities, both with a blade and with magic; she has come on in leaps and bounds this past year, and even Yennefer seems a little taken aback at Ciri’s growing powers, while the Witchers who train her speak admiringly of her speed and agility and ruthlessness with a blade. She’s as safe - as well-defended - as any princess can be.
The meal ends far too soon. The White Wolf turns and looks down the long table at Jaskier, and to Jaskier’s blank surprise, instead of a summons, there’s a question in those golden eyes, clear enough that Jaskier can almost hear the words:
Can you do this?
Ye gods, the White Wolf
cares
. Jaskier swallows and puts his mug down and nods sharply. He
will
do this. He’s going to get up and sing about the burning of Ghelibol right in his father’s damned
face
, and his father is going to have to clap and make approving noises, because Jaskier is the White Wolf’s bard, under the White Wolf’s protection, and
nobody
touches him.
He stands and grabs his lute off the back of the chair and slings it over his chest, and as he strikes a chord the whole hall goes silent - the Witchers in anticipatory pleasure, the envoys in what sure as hell looks like shock. Jaskier holds his head high and saunters out into the middle of the hall and starts to sing. He puts his whole heart into it, concentrates utterly on the words, on the melody, on catching the eye of each Witcher he passes so that everyone in the audience feels like he’s singing to
them
specifically, so that the Witchers square their shoulders and sit a little taller at the reminder of their past heroics. He finishes the last chorus standing right in front of the high table, squarely before the White Wolf’s seat, and turns and bows deeply to the White Wolf, his back to the envoys, pretending he cannot see the daggered looks they are throwing at him. Pretending he doesn’t know them at all.
The warriors of Kaer Morhen applaud uproariously. The White Wolf deigns to nod, but Jaskier, after a year of learning his expressions, can see the amusement in the creases around his eyes, the worry in the slight downturn of his mouth. Jaskier grins at him - not his best grin, but good enough to fool
almost
anyone - and retreats back to his seat at the end of the table.
There are other exhibitions after his song: a group of human warriors doing a fast-paced and energetic dance, two Witchers sparring up and down one of the long tables, never putting a foot wrong despite the plates and cups littering the surface, Yennefer and Triss summoning an illusion of a greater dragon to swoop through the hall. Jaskier claps and cheers with everyone else, and tries very hard to pretend he’s not paying any attention to the envoys.
He retreats to his rooms as soon as the formal entertainment is over, though, and for the first time since he came to Kaer Morhen, he locks the door to his bedroom before he collapses onto the bed.
His
father
. Fuck. Jaskier’s not entirely sure how he’s going to deal with this. With a little luck, though, he won’t have to. The Count de Lettenhove won’t be welcome anywhere near Ciri’s lessons, and if Jaskier eats dinner down in the kitchen with the servants - which he
has
done before, usually when he was in the middle of composing and needed to not be distracted by loud Witchers - and spends his afternoons helping Triss...with a little luck, he can stay entirely out of the envoys’ way except during supper, and they won’t dare approach him while he’s at the high table, nor interrupt him while he’s singing. If he slips away immediately after singing, he’ll be
fine
.
It works for three days, which is better than Jaskier had really expected. But on the fourth day, Triss sends him up to get something from the pantry at the same time as the diplomatic talks take their midafternoon break, and Jaskier, taking a shortcut through the main hall, comes face to face with his father.
“Julian,” his father says. Jaskier squares his shoulders and braces himself for the coming nastiness.
“Count de Lettenhove,” he replies, as coldly as he can. The man gave up any right to be called
Father
when he sent Jaskier into the White Wolf’s jaws without even
hesitating
. That Jaskier wasn’t devoured was pure luck, not any virtue of his father’s brilliance.
“You’re doing well,” his father says slowly, eyeing Jaskier’s outfit: fine silk from the tribute wagons, well-made and expensive; new boots from the same source; rings on his fingers that Ciri has insisted look better on him than on her.
“So I am,” Jaskier says. “No thanks to you.”
“It was our family’s duty to make such a sacrifice,” his father says, puffing up as though to impress Jaskier with his importance. Jaskier, who has spent hours every week facing the White Wolf, finds it a lot less intimidating than he used to.
“Duty,” he says, thoughtfully. “So it certainly wasn’t because you wanted to get rid of a...how did you put it? ‘Useless layabout of a lute-strummer’?”
The Count de Lettenhove harrumphs. “Certainly not!” he snaps.
“Just a word of advice,” Jaskier says. The hair on the back of his neck is rising, which means that the White Wolf is somewhere nearby. Jaskier doesn’t look around. “Witchers can tell if you’re lying.”
“Balderdash,” his father sputters. “Now look, boy. You’re Redanian. You owe a duty to your king - to your family! I expect you at the rooms we’ve been given after supper tonight - you’ll be telling us everything we need to know about this Warlord.”
“Will I,” Jaskier says softly. “A duty, hm? To the people who sacrificed me to the White Wolf?”
“To your kin and your king!” his father says. “And you’ll do it, if you know what’s good for you, boy.”
There’s
the threat - and, as Jaskier had not quite dared to expect, there’s the White Wolf, stepping out of the shadows to stand beside Jaskier, one hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, just as they stood a year ago before the hall of Witchers, Jaskier’s first night in Kaer Morhen.
“If you lay a hand upon him, I will cut it off,” the White Wolf says, quiet voice so rich in menace it’s nearly a snarl. The Count de Lettenhove staggers backwards in shock and dismay. “You gave him to me,” the White Wolf adds, even more softly, somehow even more menacingly. Jaskier is frankly impressed: this is a
bardic
level of vocal skill, one he didn’t know the White Wolf possessed! “He is
mine
.”
This time, Jaskier has absolutely no qualms about being claimed as the White Wolf’s. He grins at his father, bright and merry and cruel. “You gave me away,” he says. “You can hardly complain if my loyalty now lies with a far finer king than Redania’s.”
The Count de Lettenhove sputters. The White Wolf cuts him off with a low growl. “Go,” he says, an order and a threat, and Jaskier’s father,
finally
registering how much danger he is in, goes stark white and flees the room.
“Thank you,” Jaskier says when the door has closed behind his father.
The White Wolf lets go of his shoulder and shrugs a little. “Can’t let anyone mess with my bard,” he says, and Jaskier finds himself grinning, bright and happy.
My bard
. A claim as sure as sunrise, and one Jaskier never expected to hear.
He doesn’t bother trying to hide for the rest of the time the envoys are in Kaer Morhen. He meets their eyes squarely and he
grins
, because he is the White Wolf’s bard and if they lay hands on him, they’ll lose those hands.
He’s pretty sure that if it wasn’t done when he was sent off to be sacrificed to the White Wolf, his name will
definitely
be stricken from the family books now. Julian Alfred Pankratz is as good as dead to his kin.
Well, to hell with that. He’s Jaskier of Kaer Morhen, tutor to the princess Ciri, bard to the White Wolf, and anyone who doesn’t like that can
choke
on it.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
“Have you tried taking motion sickness medication?” Lucy asked Natsu, partly out of concern for the pink haired teen who was once again groaning on the seat of the carriage they’d rented like he might hurl or die at any minute, and partly out of annoyance at his whining.
“Doesn’t work,” Natsu managed to groan out clutching his stomach with one hand and a barf bag in the other.
“I wonder why,” she mused aloud curious. Most medicines in this world seemed to work a lot like potions in her last life which meant unless you had a specific allergy or built up an immunity they always worked, unlike muggle medicine which could be hit or miss sometimes and varied in effect from person to person.
“Master says it’s because of his magic,” Happy piped up from the seat next to her where he was munching on his snacks, which smelled strongly of fish, and likely weren’t helping Natsu’s nausea issue. She was just glad she had a fairly strong stomach herself, otherwise she’d probably be feeling a little sick from the scent too.
Luckily, they didn’t have to take the carriage too far, though that was mostly down to the fact that they’d taken the fastest train to cut down on travel time. Even still it had taken them a full three days to reach their destination. The town was nice though, and fairly idyllic. They even managed to time their arrival so they got there just in time for lunch, which helped quell some of Natsu’s unhappy whining about being forced to take the train when he’d wanted to walk. She’d been the one to insist, mostly because if they walked it would’ve taken them a couple weeks to even get to their destination and by then someone doubtless would’ve beat them to it.
It also wouldn’t have been worth her time as the reward split two ways between her and Natsu would only just have managed to cover her rent and some other small expenses. Technically she didn’t need the money, but Natsu and the other guild members didn’t technically know that, and while she did enjoy adventures her time was also something she didn’t want to waste. Taking what amounted to essentially a month-long hike for no real reason or any important stops to make along the way when she could just as easily take the train and take less than half the time would definitely qualify as a waste.
With their bellies comfortably full the first step was apparently to track down the client, something she let Natsu take the lead on, as technically it was his mission and she was just there to assist. Hanging back, she realized there was something a little off about both the mission and the client and that was before the man even opened his mouth to speak.
The home they’d been directed to looked like a mansion of sorts, but the door had been answered by the client, who’d introduced himself as Kaby Melon. Lucy, as a former mansion dweller was well aware that with the kind of wealth this man was claiming to have that he should’ve at least been able to afford a butler. It wasn’t completely out of the question that he and his wife were eccentric enough or paranoid enough to not want servants around, but it still struck her as extremely odd.
The room they had their meeting in was also fairly odd. It seemed incredibly empty compared to what she might’ve expected from wealthy home owners. In her experience the rich liked to flaunt their wealth to the point of gaudiness, with priceless art, plush carpets, and all kinds of expensive fragile things cluttering up their space that made a person wary of walking around lest they accidentally bump into something and break it. This was the opposite of that, almost bare, with just a few things scattered about here and there. She supposed it could be they were very minimalist in style, but it just felt incredibly off.
She didn’t pay too much attention to Kaby as he briefed them on what he wanted from the mission, mostly because it was all information she already had from the flier. Basically, there was a book called
DayBreak
that a man called Duke Everlue had in his home that Kaby wanted destroyed.
Instead she paid far more attention to the man’s wife. She looked distinctly uncomfortable in the dress she was wearing, fidgeting and tugging at it discreetly in a way that reminded her or herself back when she was being forced into some of her uncomfortable and stuffy ballgowns as a child. Her fingers also kept running over her necklace or tugging at her earrings, almost as if to reassure herself they were still there. It was very odd and definitely not the kind of thing she would’ve expected from a woman who grew up with opulence. Lucy herself had been trained out of unladylike fidgeting at a fairly young age, but she supposed the woman might have married into wealth? Still something about this whole thing just felt off, and she wasn’t in the habit of ignoring her gut feelings.
She was so caught up in her thoughts, she almost didn’t hear Natsu mentioning burning the whole of Duke Everlue’s mansion to the ground. Luckily Padfoot’s subtle nudge from where he was hiding in her shadow, where the clients couldn’t see or potentially be alarmed by him, focused her back on the present.
“We are not burning down the mansion,” she told her companion firmly. She’d been made aware by Mirajane before she left that Natsu was, perhaps unsurprisingly considering his magic and upbringing, a bit of a firebug. She had absolutely no intention of having arson charges leveled against her, or potentially having the entire of Shirotsume go up in flames if things got out of hand.
“But Luigi!” Natsu whined.
“No Natsu,” she scolded firmly, “I’m telling you right now if there are any damages or fines the entirety of it will come out of your part of the reward. No burning.”
“Fine,” he acknowledged with a small grin that let her know he’d at least partially been joking about burning it down, which was a bit of a relief. It was sometimes hard to tell with Natsu when he was joking about doing stupid things or when he was actually serious.
“I am curious though,” she admitted turning her attention to their client, “What’s so special about this book that makes it worth two hundred
thousand
jewel?”
It was actually something that had been bugging her a bit. She knew of course, that there were books out there that were worth that kind of price tag, rare tomes, and little black books of blackmail and the like, but from what she could tell, and from the limited description they’d been given it seemed like a fairly ordinary book.
“Not two hundred thousand,” the man told them with a puzzled frown, which had her breathing out a breath that was mixed relief and exasperation. There must’ve been a mix-up somewhere along the line and the book was only worth twenty thousand, still quite a bit more expensive than the average book, but not completely unreasonable. Still it did make the reward rather paltry, especially since she’d be splitting it with Natsu, which was rather disappointing.
“Two million,” the man corrected, making Lucy choke on air. It seemed she’d been a little too hasty in her relief.
“Two million?” she repeated flabbergasted while Natsu and Happy sputtered in the background.
“That much?! Two million, even divided by three would be enough to buy so much fish!” Happy crowed triumphantly.
“Three?” Lucy asked with a frown, “I thought we were splitting half and half.”
“Oy,” Natsu warned her, his voice taking on an edge of danger that had her hands reflexively twitching for her keys, “Happy is my partner, and he gets equal share. He’s a member of Fairy Tail too.”
“Yes, well Padfoot is my partner,” she snapped back annoyed at the way he always seemed to jump to conclusions, specifically the wrong conclusions, “And I figured the money was going to be split between the two partnerships and then however you split with Happy and I split with Padfoot was up to us.”
“Oh!” Natsu acknowledged brightening back up immediately, his swift change in moods practically giving her whiplash, “That’s right! I forgot Padfoot was with us since he always hides! Sorry Lucy, Padfoot, I won’t forget again. It’s just that normally a lot of people discount Happy just because he isn’t human, so I need to remind them you know?”
Lucy couldn’t help but sigh at that, out of sight out of mind seemed to really ring true for Natsu. She was just glad he hadn’t managed to throw a fit and been properly diverted. Plus, if what he said was true, and looking at Happy’s slightly sad expression she’d guess it was, then she could understand being a bit defensive.
She hadn’t been around them all that long yet, but it had been clear to her within an hour of meeting the duo that they were basically family to each other. They honestly reminded her a lot of the bond she had with her spirits, which definitely made her more sympathetic to him. Besides, even if they were meant to be partners for this mission Natsu didn’t actually know her all that well yet, so it was understandable that he’d make assumptions about her based on his interactions with others.
“It’s fine. I know that Happy is really important too,” she told him with a slight smile, “Just please stop assuming the worst of me okay? First Macao, now this?”
“Right,” Natsu agreed rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, “Sorry Lucy I’ll try to be better.”
“I’ll help!” Happy agreed cheerfully, piping up for the first time, looking more perky now that she’d acknowledged him as well, “There’s no one better at wrangling Natsu than me!”
“I believe it,” Lucy told him with a laugh then turned back to their client who’d been watching with wary fascination, “Sorry you had to see all that, we’re new to working together, but we are both good at these kinds of things, and will try to be more professional from now on.”
“No, no,” he hastily reassured her with a kind smile that did feel fairly genuine to her, “It’s alright. I’ve heard good things about the Fairy Tail Guild, so I’m not worried you’ll complete the job I asked of you.”
“But what is it exactly that makes this book worth so much?” she pressed, figuring it was about time to get back to what they were actually there for. After all, two hundred thousand seemed excessive to her, two million just seemed unfathomably ludicrous. Her question instantly made the smile fall off his face, and he clenched his hands together in his lap looking genuinely distressed.
“DayBreak is a book I simply cannot allow to exist,” Kaby told them, clear passion and a faint hint of hysteria in his voice that had his wife stepping forward to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly. The distress in his voice at least did seem very genuine to her, which was a bit of a relief, clearly something about that book was personal to the man, and she honestly had her money set on blackmail.
Unfortunately, she didn’t get the chance to ask more questions as Natsu surged up from his spot beside her, and shouted, “Don’t worry Melon dude we’ll get that book for you! I’m all fired up!”
Lucy yelped as she was literally yanked off her feet, by Natsu’s surprisingly strong grip on her wrist, as he dashed out the door Happy cheering alongside them as he sprinted off in his excitement with her flailing along behind a bit like a helpless kite in the wind. Luckily her training meant she did manage to get her feet under her and with Padfoot’s help she managed to brace herself enough to drag Natsu to a halt.
“What’s the hold up Luigi?” Natsu asked clearly surprised to be stopped.
“Natsu you can’t just go rushing in, and I had more questions for the client. He never even told us why he wanted the book in the first place,” she told him exasperated.
“Does it matter?” Natsu asked surprisingly reasonable, “We were asked to destroy the book, that’s all there is to it really.”
It was a surprisingly simplistic, but not unnecessarily wrong way of thinking. Still the thought of doing something simply because she was hired to do it, without knowing the hows and the whys of it made her extremely uncomfortable.
“What if the book is dangerous? Or what if it’s something really important, like evidence or something? What if someone else needs the book for something vital? Without knowing why he wants the book destroyed in the first place, how can we know that it’s the right thing to do? What if Kaby Melon is the bad guy in this situation and Duke Everlue is the good one?” she questioned doing her best to make the impulsive dragon slayer understand.
“That’s easy!” Natsu assured her with a wide smile, “The Guild vetted the mission, so Melon guy must be in the right of it, otherwise we never would’ve accepted it, that’s the Fairy Tail way!”
She supposed for him that did make sense, and she couldn’t protest without making it look like she didn’t trust Fairy Tail. She didn’t. She didn’t know Fairy Tail outside the handful of people from the Guild she’d met and befriended, and even them she wouldn’t call particularly close. Plus, she hadn’t gotten the best impression of its master Makarov when Macao was missing, and honestly had found the Fairy Tail way so far to be a tad misogynistic if she was being honest.
However, she didn’t think her concerns would go down very well with Natsu. Long experience had taught her that arguing with zealots who firmly believed in institutions or people was nearly impossible. They just couldn’t be reasoned with, not really. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d tried to convince the Weasleys that Dumbledore really hadn’t been the paragon of light and virtue they believed him to be in the aftermath of the war and been completely unsuccessful outside of George, Bill, and Percy. Molly in particular had near deified the man and wouldn’t hear a word against him.
It had been an exercise in frustration, and not something she was keen to repeat, especially since she had the strangest feeling Natsu’s stubbornness could put Molly Weasley’s to shame. That didn’t mean she was ready to give up entirely though.
“You don’t think that Kaby Melon was suspicious at all?” she tried, knowing that, if nothing else Natsu did seem to have very good instincts.
“You’re right,” Natsu told her with a firm nod his arms folded across his chest and a thoughtful look on his face that had her letting out a breath of relief, “Something about him did smell kind of funny. But I think that he’s a good guy you know? So, we should help him out!”
Lucy groaned and looked at Happy for help, but the blue cat just shrugged at her, clearly willing to go along with Natsu on this one. On one hand she admired Natsu’s simpler thought process and his ability to have faith both in people and in a Guild, he clearly loved. On the other hand, she kind of wanted to strangle him for the exact same reasons.
“If nothing else, the client didn’t say you couldn’t read the book yourself,” Padfoot murmured into her ear as she resignedly followed Natsu and Happy toward the Everlue Mansion the townspeople directed them toward, “That way you can make your own judgment.”
“Good point,” she agreed with a wry smile, comforted by the thought, and by his presence, reminded that she wasn’t actually outnumbered by Happy and Natsu, “And I suppose we have to worry about finding the book itself first.”
Finding the book was going to be easier said than done as she eyed the enormous metal gate surrounding the mansion that supposedly housed the book and Duke Everlue. It was incredibly imposing, and at the very least it did at least look impressive. However, with Virgo and Padfoot, both well able to dig under it, it wouldn’t be that difficult, the problem was the sheer size of everything. Looking for a single book in a mansion that size was going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
“Are you sure you don’t want to try dressing up as a maid and sneaking in?” Happy asked her sincerely, clearly reading the unhappy expression on her face, but misinterpreting it as concern over the breaking and entering part of the mission.
“I’ll pass,” she told him dryly.
“Then there’s only one way forward!” Natsu cheered rolling up his metaphorical sleeves, “Plan T!”
“Plan T!” Happy echoed with a joyful cheer that did nothing to assuage the concern she felt about this unknown plan.
“And what exactly is Plan T?” she demanded, snagging Natsu firmly by his scarf and refusing to let him leave the cover of the tree line and march right up to the gates the way he was clearly planning to do.
“It’s Plan T,” Natsu told her as if it should be completely obvious, then elaborated, “Take them head on!”
“I don’t think so,” she scolded firmly, “Just because technically we can’t get in trouble after the fact, doesn’t mean we can’t get the Rune Knights called on us for attacking the mansion or causing property damage.”
“Then what do you suggest Luigi?” Natsu asked clearly exasperated.
“Plan B,” she informed him, glancing at Padfoot in askance, and immediately getting a nod of agreement.
“Plan B?” Happy asked clearly confused.
“Yep,” she agreed with a smirk, “Breaking and entering it is.”
♈️ ♉️ ♊️ ♋️ ♌️ ♍️ ♎️ ♏️ ♐️ ♑️ ♒️ ♓️
With the help of Padfoot to get them under the wall, and Happy to fly the them up to the roof it didn’t take too long for them to find their way inside the mansion in a manner Lucy hoped was undetected. As a precaution she had Padfoot keep hidden in her shadow, so they’d have back-up that hopefully the Duke wouldn’t know about.
The room they’d broken into thanks to Natsu silently melting the glass seemed to be some kind of storage room, with all kinds of odds and ends on various shelves, and several full suits of armor. It was honestly exactly the kind of opulent and worthless knickknacks that had been decidedly missing in the Kaby residence. Unfortunately, if all the rooms were this full it was going to make finding the book they were after incredibly difficult. It really could be anywhere in the mansion.
“Check this out!” Happy cheered, pulling her from her inspection of several dusty old tomes that almost made her sneeze. The cat was clearly playing, and had what looked like some kind of animal skull on his head.
“Ohh Happy so cool!” Natsu shouted eagerly, making her wince.
“Shh!” she reprimanded firmly, “You’re going to get us caught.”
“But Lucy, we have no idea where the book is,” Natsu told her reasonably, voicing the thought she herself had just been having, “So wouldn’t it be a good idea to track down someone and ask where it is?”
“That might work if we had any way of ensuring they didn’t report us to Duke Everlue and that they told us the truth,” she told him with a helpless shrug, “But as it is, our best bet is to try to remain undetected for as long as possible, do as through a search as we can manage, and hope for the best.”
“Which means,” she bit out unhappily as Natsu accidentally knocked into a metal vase and sent it to the ground with a loud clatter, “Being silent and stealthy!”
“It’s no use,” she murmured despairingly to Padfoot as she realized that Natsu wasn’t even listening to her anymore, “Remind me again why I agreed to come on this mission again?”
“Because we thought it would be an interesting adventure,” Padfoot told her, snickering slightly as Natsu tripped over something, got his foot stuck in an urn and went headfirst into a suit of armor, “And you have to admit, at the very least this is very entertaining.”
“How does he ever get anything done?” she asked completely and utterly baffled.
“Who knows,” her longest companion told her with a canine shrug, “Probably sheer dumb luck.”
She sighed in acknowledgment and decided there was really nothing she could do except try to complete the mission with the limitations she had. Which meant it was time to move on to a new plan.
Quickly she dipped her hand into her requip space, running her fingers along all her keys, and finding the one she needed by touch. She smiled slightly as she eyed the silver key, whose constellation inscription in the bow was colored in such a way that unless it was at the exact right angle to catch the light, disappeared entirely, blending in with the silver metal so you’d never know what it was. It also had a bit of an interesting texture to it that was almost unnoticeable, but felt like pebbled skin under her fingertips when she took the time to inspect it closely, and its cuts were shaped like a climbing lizard clinging to a branch.
It was one of her easiest keys to find by feel, and she quickly summoned the connected spirit, so used to it by now that she didn’t even need the words, or more than a thought and a touch of her power for her friend to appear with a nearly silent puff of magic.
“Cam,” she greeted with a warm smile for the shy spirit, whose eyes were darting around a bit anxiously, spinning in different directions to take in the entirety of the room before settling on her.
“You called princess?” the Chameleon Spirit, who preferred to be called Cam for short, greeted quietly.
“I did Cam. I could really use your help if you have time for me,” she told him gently. He was one of her Spirits who’d told her right away he didn’t mind being called at any time. He’d been a bit despairing of it when he’d told her, and she got the impression that he didn’t expect to ever be called on, that the reason he’d left his availability so open wasn’t because he necessarily wanted to, but because he was afraid it was his only hope of being summoned.
It had broken her heart a bit, and she really hadn’t understood at all. Sure, most wizards only saw Spirits as tools, but Cam was a phenomenally useful Spirit, able to hide and sneak around undetected almost anywhere, which made the fact that he almost never got called on completely ridiculous to her. Just because he wasn’t a battle spirit didn’t mean he wasn’t useful or skilled.
More importantly though, he was a sweetheart, incredibly self-conscious of his appearance, but kind and good, and he deserved to be treated like the wonderful being he was, which was why she’d made it a point since getting his key for her own to summon him every month at least once so the two of them could just hang out together and do whatever caught their interest.
He’d been a bit reluctant at first, unsure why she’d want him around, but she thought she was slowly but surely winning him over. It would take more time, of that she was sure, but she was more than capable of being patient, especially when it came to her precious family members.
“I always have time for you hime,” Cam assured her earnestly, pulling her from her thoughts, but then shyly tacking on, “Are you sure I would be useful though?”
“Of course,” she assured him with a smile, “You’re perfect for this. You see I really need to be able to sneak around here undetected, and I already know you’ll be able to help me with that.”
“I’m only able to hide one person at a time hime,” Cam reminded her, rather diplomatically given the absolutely dubious look he was giving Natsu and Happy who were so fascinated with a sword they’d found on a shelf that they hadn’t even noticed her summoning Cam. That trying to hide the two would be a completely endeavor given how much noise they were making was left unsaid.
“That’s fine,” she told him with an exasperated look in the duo’s direction, “I only need you to hide me. They’re the diversion.”
“Oh, okay,” Cam told her looking incredibly relieved, “I can do that.”
“Thank you so much,” she beamed at him, “Just like we practiced right?”
Cam nodded and accepted the hand she held out, and despite the incredibly odd feeling of his fingers she made sure not to flinch or indicate in any way that she was averse to touching him, well aware that it could and would hurt his feelings. He immediately shrunk into his smaller form, dainty claws careful not to sink her skin as he crawled up her arm and settled around her neck.
The effect was almost immediate and she watched in fascination as she slowly faded from view. Having Cam touch her was a bit like wearing her old invisibility cloak. They’d discovered through experimentation that the best way to collaborate was to have him wrapped around her neck, where he could see and make observations directly into her ear if needed and wouldn’t accidentally fall off.
Being in contact with him also gave her increased climbing ability, so much so she could actually go straight up vertical walls and even cling to the ceiling for short periods of time. Between him and Padfoot to watch her back they were the ultimate stealth team. Technically Cam could cast invisibility magic on her even when he wasn’t touching her skin, but it never seemed to work as well. It was more like the disillusionment spell where you could still kind of see an outline, and definitely see movement. It had its advantages of course, but she much preferred the full invisibility mode when she had the choice.
“Ah Lucy disappeared!” Happy exclaimed loudly whirling around frantically, finally noticing that she wasn’t actually with them, alerting Natsu who also began to look around, appearing deeply concerned and Happy called for her, “Lucy? Lucy where’d you go? Are you okay? Did Duke Evergreen get you?”
“Shh!” she scolded despite knowing it was mostly useless to try to make them be quieter, almost certain that someone had to have heard the odd shouting from the storage room by now, “I’m still here you just can’t see me, and it’s Everlue not Evergreen.”
“Whoa!” Natsu exclaimed clearly fascinated as he glanced around before zeroing in on her, approaching with his hands out and nearly groping her accidentally before she grabbed on to his hands to keep him from doing so, “Lucy I can smell you and, hear you, your heartbeat and breathing are still there and I can feel you but I can’t see you at all! I didn’t know you knew invisibility magic!”
“That’s because I don’t,” she told him admittedly a little amused by his fascination as Happy approached cautiously and managed to find her leg, gently poking it with one of his paws looking absolutely fascinated, “But one of my Spirit’s does. He’s helping me out.”
“That’s so cool!” Natsu shouted, literal stars in his eyes and she officially gave up on trying to make him be quiet, “Can they do it for me too?”
“Sorry Natsu, while Cam is pretty cool his magic is something that only works for me at the moment,” Lucy told him stretching the truth a bit, but figuring it was for the best. Technically Cam could, but he’d have to release his hold on her first, which would be fairly detrimental to the mission all things considered.
“Aww,” Natsu whined, disappointed, but also clearly accepting, “I wanted to be invisible too! You’re like a ninja!”
“I’ve always wanted to be a ninja,” Happy noted wistfully.
“Right?” Natsu asked clearly ecstatic, “Ninja’s are so cool. Lucy your magic is so cool!”
“Thanks, Natsu,” she told him, noting that he’d used her real name for once, and wondering if this was the time it would finally stick, “But it’s not my magic, it’s Cam’s. He’s the cool one.”
“Cam huh?” Natsu questioned clearly intrigued his nose wrinkling a bit as he clearly sniffed the air around her face, a bit like a dog honestly, not that she’d ever tell him or Padfoot that as she was sure both would get offended, “Is he the new scent on you? Is he with you and invisible too? That’s so cool! Cam you’re so cool!”
She felt her Chameleon Spirit stiffen a bit on her shoulder, shocked incredulity coming off him in waves at being so openly complimented by someone, and she was sure if she could see him he’d be blushing up a storm.
“You must be an amazing ninja!” Natsu continued not giving the poor Spirit even a second to answer, “I’m going to be an amazing ninja just like you Cam!”
With that he whirled away, wrapping his scarf around his hair and lower face like a mask and holding his hands together as a pose reminiscent of a ninja anime she vaguely remembered seeing from another life, shouting at Happy to join him as they burst out of the room together, saying something about ‘nin-nin’ as they made their way down the halls, leaving Lucy standing dumbfounded behind them.
She made her way to the doorway and watched incredulously as they pretended to hide behind various plants and statues, peering around corners like spies from a James Bond movie, and looking completely and utterly conspicuous and ridiculous.
“A cool ninja?” Cam muttered quietly from her neck, the words would’ve been inaudible if he hadn’t been so close to her ear, but as he was she clearly heard the quiet awe in his voice, as if he’d been struck by a revelation. Her heart softened in response, and she could feel gratitude for Natsu’s open and sincere words to her shy Spirit. He was ridiculous sure, but he was also very kind, and she knew it had meant a lot to her friend, which meant a lot to her, and she reminded herself not to judge him too harshly in the future for his wild antics.
Her new resolve was immediately tested as several maids appeared, and spotted him immediately all of them yelling about an intruder. Apparently, they weren’t ordinary maids either, because unlike the maids she’d known they didn’t immediately try to make a run for it, and instead chose to try to attack Natsu, which was a bit of a surprise. However apparently, he had things well in hand, and was clearly having the time of his life if the grin on his face was any indication, which meant she felt safe to leave him and get to work on the actual mission.
“Let me know if anyone starts heading our way,” she murmured quietly to her two companions, Cam around her neck, and Padfoot who was slipping along in the shadows behind her, earning a nod against her neck from Cam and a quiet whuff from her canine companion.
Figuring there was really nothing else for it she started to go through the rooms one by one. Most of them were fairly ordinary rooms for a mansion and not unlike some of the ones she herself had back in the Heartfilia mansion, full of opulence, grand instruments and expensive looking furniture and décor.
However, there were also a couple of extremely strange rooms that indicated an extremely eccentric person owned the place that never would’ve been allowed by anyone with taste. The most disturbing of these rooms was entirely covered in gold and had a bust of a man’s head on the golden toilet, one that looked suspiciously like the portrait that had been on the poster. It was positioned in such a way that any woman who wanted to sit on the toilet would have to straddle the head, and her lip curled with disgust. It was no wonder really that the poster warned he was a pervert, though she did get some of her own twisted kind of amusement at realizing that any man who peed would likely dribble on the head as well.
Still despite some of her disturbing findings she was having no luck finding the book, even if she was doing a fairly good job at remaining undetected. She hadn’t come across anyone else yet at all, which she put down to Natsu’s unintentional diversion as he was still yelling rather loudly from somewhere a ways down the hall.
However, she finally hit on the jackpot. A library, and a big one, exactly the right kind of place. She just hoped it was there and not locked up somewhere special otherwise this was going to be an exercise in frustration.
“It’ll take forever to get through all of these on our own,” Padfoot noted quietly into her ear as she slowly began to scan the shelves, completely unsurprised to find whole sections dedicated completely to porn, “Maybe it’s time to call in more back-up?”
She hesitated. On one hand, having another spirit, in this case probably Grandpa Crux, whose reading speed was lightyears faster than her own and who was very familiar with all kinds of library layouts, would make the whole process infinitely faster and far less painful. On the other hand, she was trying to remain undetected.
“I can probably cover one more person,” Cam volunteered slowly, clearly hesitant but confidence apparently bolstered a bit by Natsu’s earlier praise otherwise he never would’ve spoken at all, “It won’t be very good, a bit like camouflage and not any sort of invisibility, so maybe it’s a bad idea sorry.”
“No, no!” she hastily reassured the Chameleon, wanting to encourage more of that confidence, especially since it was actually viable as a plan as long as they were quick, “That’s great Cam, let me just summon Grandpa Crux and we’ll get to work!”
“O-okay!” Cam stuttered out, nervous but clearly pleased by the praise, “I’ll do my best Lucy-hime!”
Just as predicted it went a lot faster with Crux’s willing help. The elderly spirit practically zooming through the shelves. He was also fairly visible, pieces of him shimmering in and out of focus if one looked long enough, but at a quick glance he would be incredibly hard to spot.
“Here it is!” Crux announced after several tense minutes as Padfoot, who admittedly wasn’t the fastest reader around kept watch on the door and Lucy and Cam scanned shelves together, Lucy doing her best not to give into her urge to fetch Natsu and have him burn the whole room down the way he’d originally planned.
She had nothing against porn or sex work for that matter. It was a thing that happened and so long as everything was consensual she was perfectly happy to ignore it. However, some of Duke Everlue’s porn books looked less like consensual media and more like blackmail material or disturbing fantasies come to life, some of the names on the spines vaguely familiar. Which of course meant she was incredibly relieved to have Crux find the book and not have to spend any more time looking at the disgusting titles she’d been forced to read.
Given everything that she’d been reading during her browsing, she’d honestly expected more of the same when it came to Daybreak. Considering some of the things she’d seen she was fully ready to burn the book and had begun to think it was some kind of awful fantasy book about someone Kaby Melon cared about, which would explain why he’d wanted it destroyed so badly.
However, that wasn’t what she got. A quick look at the cover showed nothing incriminating or disgusting, just a simple picture of a sunset. In fact, the only interesting thing on the cover was actually the name of the author Kemu Zaleon. It was actually a name she recognized. She’d read some of his works before. One of his more famous series was actually about an intrepid and rather clever wizard that she’d actually enjoyed a lot, especially as it was very clear Kemu Zaleon was either a mage himself or had worked fairly closely with one before as some of his descriptors were very realistic.
It gave her pause as she inspected the strange golden cover, wondering why this, of all the really terrible books she’d seen, was the one Kaby Melon wanted destroyed.
“Crux have you heard of this book before?” she asked passing it back to the Spirit who was far more widely read than she could ever hope to be, hoping he had some kind of insight.
“While I’ve read a great many of Kemu Zaleon’s books and enjoyed them a great deal I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure,” Crux told her eyeing it a bit wistfully, before passing it back, “It must be one of his unpublished works, that or exceedingly rare.”
“That it most certainly is,” a new voice piped in, nearly making her jump out of her skin, and she whirled around trying to find the source as Padfoot began to growl.
“You know I’d wondered why all these wizards seemed to be trying to break into my home,” the voice continued thoughtfully, “I never realized it was for that stupid book. Good thing I installed some more security otherwise I never would’ve found out!”
With that she was finally able to locate the source, a lacrima on the wall, in fact on closer inspection she realized there were several lacrima embedded around the room no doubt the equivalent of a security system. She cursed herself for not checking for something like that, and being so complacent, but did comfort herself in that such systems, unlike in her last life, were fiendishly expensive. Only the richest of the rich could afford it, which did excuse her not thinking of it to some extent, even if in hindsight it would make sense for a man with a literal gold-plated bathroom to have one.
However, the fact that he was calling the book stupid of all things, when Kaby Melon was insistent the book was worth two million jewel spiked her suspicions once again, both for the client and for Duke Everlue.
“I’ll admit you’re at least cleverer than most of the mages who broke in,” Duke Everlue continued, clearly prone to monologue, not surprising given the obvious ego on the man, “The invisibility was clever, but the floating books kind of give you away hmm?”
“I’m sorry!” Cam squeaked in her ear, clearly mortified at the oversight.
“Hey no,” she quickly assured him in an undertone, “that one’s on me. It’s my fault. I didn’t even think about it.”
“Now I think I’m going to have to take a closer look at that book,” Everlue told her, making her hands automatically tighten on the cover, “So I’ll just be taking it.”
Before she could do or say anything she felt an immense pressure settle over her shoulders, as if a giant hand was suddenly forcing her to the ground. She let out a surprised yelp as her legs gave out from under her, unable to withstand the pressure, earning an alarmed exclamation from both Crux, and Padfoot. Her body felt heavy, like she was trying to move through thick sticky syrup as she fought to keep herself up, but eventually was pushed flat, her knees and hands sliding out from underneath her even as she tried to keep a grip on her prize.
She let out a slew of curses as one of the library shelves slid back revealing three figures, two men and a woman, all of them with slightly Asian features. One of the men seemed to be wielding an odd weapon of some sort that was shaped like a frying pan of all things, and the other had hair shaped like a star. The woman though was probably the strangest of all given she had what looked like the trays from scales dangling from her fingertips on each hand.
“I’ll take this,” one of the men, the one with the weird hair told her, managing to pry it out of her fingers, the cover too slippery for her to hold on to.
“Now where are you exactly?” he asked patting the ground around her before finally finding the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair and yanking hard making her yelp in surprise and pain as he exclaimed, “Got you!”
However, her own pain was quickly echoed as he yowled in clear shock, and Lucy managed to fight off enough of whatever was holding her down in time to see Cam, brave Cam latched firmly on to his hand, small but sharp teeth dug into the meat of his palm between his thumb and forefinger.
Unfortunately, in his smaller form he didn’t have much weight and the man who was rather large, clearly well over six feet in height managed to send his small body flying through the air and crashing into one of the bookshelves.
“Cam!” she shouted in alarm, fighting desperately to get her feet back under her and get up from whatever magic was forcing her down, her own magic beginning to rise and swirl around her rather dangerously.
“Well, well visible at last, are you?” Everlue’s voice asked, something in his tone that made her shudder with revulsion, “And such a pretty thing too. Libra bring her to me!”
The woman stepped forward as Lucy was stunned into silence at the name. Taking a closer look and forcing herself to stop panicking for a minute she did recognize the energy radiating from the woman. She was a little shocked she hadn’t noticed before, but then she’d been caught up in her head a bit about the whole screwing up the mission thing.
“Libra?” she repeated a bit dumbly.
“Oh? Recognize that name, do you?” Everlue asked, his voice clearly gloating, “Yes Libra, one of the rare golden Celestial Gate keys! It’s actually funny how she came to be in my possession, another wizard just like you actually. One who failed rather spectacularly. We made a bargain she and I, leave Libra in my possession and she leaves with her life. A rather good bargain I should say, a servant for her life, not that either was worth much really. Still a golden key fits my image only the best for the best after all, and Celestial Mage Duke Atticus Everlue has quite the nice ring to it.”
Lucy ground her teeth in frustrated anger both for the Celestial Mage who’d traded Libra away and Duke Everlue, swearing quietly to herself that when she got out of this mess she was going to make him regret his words. Especially when a closer look revealed resigned acceptance written all over what little she could see the Spirit’s face, as if she was used to such treatment. It was infuriating.
It was funny in her last life two people on opposite ends of the spectrum had told her emotion could fuel magic, Dumbledore with his power of love and sacrifice that was both complete rubbish and true at the same time, and Bellatrix who told her she had to really mean it in order to fuel her cruciatus curse. It was also kind of amusing to her that it was a mix of the two that she used most often, righteous fury seeping through her, and powering her magic in this life the same way it had in the last.
“Don’t you ever,
ever
call yourself a Celestial Mage you pathetic, slimy sack of scum,” she ground out, as her magic slowly but surely overpowered what she now recognized as Libra’s.
“Celestial Mages, true Celestial Mages, aren’t like you,” she hissed out, thinking of her lovely Mother, of Bero, of Spetto the people who’d loved her and raised her to respect the wonderful magic she’d been gifted, “We are honorable in our way, we never break our promises, and we sure as hell don’t treat our Spirits, our friends, our partners, like tools. You are not a Celestial Mage.”
“Oh?” Everlue asked clear disdain in his voice, “And I suppose you think you are? Stupid girl. I used the key I brought Libra here and she must obey I am her master, that makes me a Celestial Mage. None of this magic of friendship garbage you’re spewing necessary.”
“You think so, do you?” Lucy asked quietly, dangerously, “Then I suppose, it’s up to me to teach you differently.”
“I think you’re forgetting something here,” Everlue told her with a laugh, “You don’t even know where I am and even if you did. I wouldn’t even have to lift a finger, but I’m done speaking with you I think. Knock her out and put her in the dungeons, search her for keys and take them too. They’re probably worthless but I might as well add to my collection.”
Libra and the men all took steps forward, clearly determined to follow their orders, but they didn’t get a chance as a body came flying through the doorway knocking the two men off their feet and flying into the bookshelves where they were quickly covered in a rain of heavy books.
“Ah whoops! Oh, hey Lucy,” Natsu greeted as he appeared in the doorway, looking a little ruffled but otherwise unharmed, “You’re visible again! Does that mean Cam had to go home?”
Reminded of her friend she quickly spun around, deeply concerned for the lizard spirit, but he was nowhere to be seen. That was fairly concerning, but she hoped it meant he’d gone home to the Spirit Realms and was safe and away from this mess. Unfortunately, her lapse gave one of the men an opening and she would’ve likely gotten a very large, and very heavy frying pan smashed into her, except Natsu had apparently been looking out for her and managed to grab her arm and pull her away, just in time.
“Oy, who are these clowns?” Natsu asked eying the two men, who’d apparently unearthed themselves from the books, and Libra rather dubiously, which if she was honest was a bit hypocritical considering he still had his scarf wrapped around his hair and face with pink strands sticking out all over the place.
“Look at that mark!” Happy exclaimed drawing her attention. Apparently, the little blue cat was alright as well, which was a relief, not that she’d been too worried, both of them had proved they were capable of taking care of themselves in a physical fight at least, “That’s the mark from the Mercenary Guild the South Wolves!”
“They’re mages hired by Duke Everlue,” Lucy explained, before pointing to the one with the star shaped hair “And that one has the book we need!”
“No problem!” Natsu assured her cracking his knuckles as he eyed the two men as if they were prey a fairly menacing expression on his face for a person who could be so stupidly kind, “I’ll just burn both him and the book at the same time. It’ll be like a two for one special!”
A part of her wanted to protest burning the book just yet. She had a strange feeling about it and wanted to, at the very least learn what it was about. Unfortunately, she didn’t get a chance to voice that thought before she was interrupted.
“You’re awfully cocky brat, especially for a wizard who specializes in fire,” the man with the frying pan told him scoffing at him.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Natsu asked genuinely curious.
“We’re especially skilled against wizards who like fire,” he explained with a smirk, hefting the heavy looking pan over his shoulder with an ease that belied his smaller, more wiry frame.
“Is that so?” Natsu told him completely and utterly unbothered, “We’ll just see about that. I’m all fired up!”
His words were accompanied by a stream of fire from his lips, that took her by surprise, the roar of heat passed her face enough to make her wince slightly as she hurriedly dodged out of the way, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. Unfortunately, it seemed the man hadn’t been exaggerating when he said they specialized in stopping people like Natsu, as he was easily able to block it with the pan, both men leaping to attack Natsu, which left her to face Libra. She turned toward the Spirit, but the woman wasn’t moving instead just looking at her, reluctance written all over her face.
“What are you doing you stupid thing? I told you knock her out and bring her to me Libra!” the Duke’s voice ordered, spurring the poor spirit into action.
Libra immediately lifted her scales, clearly going to try that strange magic that had forced her to the ground again. Lucy was unwilling to be hit by it again, but considering she wasn’t sure what it was, it was hard to know how to dodge. Libra hadn’t featured in many of the stories she’d read and heard over the years, probably because she wasn’t one her mother had met or known personally, which unfortunately left her abilities a mystery.
There really weren’t a whole lot of options for her at this point, except to move, and keep moving hoping that Libra needed a stationary target or a clear line of sight for her magic to work. Books and shelves were flying through the air, along with random bursts of fire from Natsu’s fight, which made things both easier and harder at the same time.
It was pretty clear Natsu and Happy were used to fighting like this, and dodging around one another even in close quarters, but he wasn’t very good about factoring her in, which meant she almost got singed more than once as she dodged through the shelves in something a bit like demented hide and seek as she tried to figure out how to defeat Libra. Normally the easiest way to defeat a Celestial Spirit was to defeat whoever held their key, but considering Duke Everlue was hiding somewhere and not within easy reach that option was out. She was honestly stumped and probably would’ve remained that way if not for the timely arrival of her Spirits.
Long experience meant she didn’t even make a sound as she melted and fell backwards into the shadows where Padfoot was, allowing the darkness to conceal them both in a space not unlike the canine’s own personal void of sorts. It was a bit like she imagined requip space to be, only this space was extremely dangerous for anyone who didn’t have Shadow magic to traverse, filled with all kinds of extremely threatening creatures, including demons who could and would drag a person down by their soul in order to devour it. She’d been warned early on that she was never to move in that space without her friend to guide her, lest she get herself lost forever, and she’d never had any real desire to do so.
“Padfoot,” she breathed in relief, her fingers automatically tangling into his fur, it was something she’d been taught to do the moment Padfoot had started taking her into the shadows as there was no light whatsoever, which meant she couldn’t see a single thing. It was a good thing she’d never been afraid of the dark, that and she trusted her friend implicitly, “Your timing is phenomenal. Any ideas on how we defeat Libra without hurting her to much?”
“I think I can probably be of assistance,” a familiar elderly voice told her, surprising her quite a bit.
“Crux? You’re here too?” she asked. She’d honestly thought the Spirit of the Southern Cross would’ve headed back for the Spirit Realms the moment the fighting started. He’d made it clear from the beginning that he wasn’t a battle spirit, and she didn’t blame him a single bit, not when it was pretty obvious he was fairly physically frail. The last thing she would’ve wanted was for him to get hurt.
“I-I’m here too Lucy-hime,” a quiet voice volunteered, this one surprising her almost more than Crux.
“Cam!” she breathed relieved and concerned all at once, “Thank you so much for trying to help me. Are you alright?”
“The Chameleon is better than alright,” Padfoot butted in, surprising her with how eager he sounded. Padfoot wasn’t unkind necessarily, but she knew he had some trouble relating to Cam’s shyer personality, “He’s brilliant!”
“I was already aware he was brilliant,” she told her canine companion loyally, believing it with the entirety of her being, “But is there some reason in particular you’ve decided to reiterate it?”
“When Cam here saw that all attention was on you and Natsu, he decided to go and be the ninja the annoying little fire bug said he was and stole that book you need right out of the man’s pocket!” Padfoot crowed eagerly, “I was actually covering him with Crux here, which is why it took us a little bit longer to get to you. Sorry about that.”
“That’s fine,” she assured him hastily, “In fact that’s better than fine that’s amazing! Cam you’re brilliant!”
“L-Lucy-hime is too kind,” the Chameleon spirit muttered, clearly bashful, and she thought if she could see his face it would likely be a brilliant red right about now.
“You really have the book?” she asked just to be sure, feeling a little awed and extremely proud of her Spirits and of Cam in particular.
“Right here Lucy-hime,” Crux assured her the gentle thumping sound letting her know he was tapping his hand on it.
“Perfect, then I have a favor to ask of you before you return to the Spirit realms if it’s alright Crux,” she told the Southern Cross.
“It’s alright hime, I’m allowed to tell you about the magical abilities of the other spirits. I can’t give specifics of course, but I can tell you that Libra uses Gravity Magic,” Crux told her kindly, clearly taking a guess at what she wanted and missing the mark entirely, though he did manage to distract her from her original request.
“Gravity Magic,” she repeated thoughtfully her mind racing in a million different directions at once, “That’s a fairly rare thing to come across.”
“Indeed,” Crux agreed, “Libra is definitely one of the trickier Spirits to meet in battle, even light bends to Gravity.”
“But I overpowered her earlier,” Lucy mused aloud, “So like most things brute force probably works, and she didn’t seem capable of pinning me down while I was moving earlier. I really don’t want to hurt her though. It’s not her fault the guy she’s contracted to is such a creep.”
“So, take the key and break the contract,” Padfoot told her casually, and clearly a little exasperated with her.
“But I thought Celestial Spirit Mages weren’t allowed to steal from one another,” Lucy protested confused at why her friend was suddenly mentioning an option that had been reiterated to her by several people was technically against the rules.
“Steal no,” Crux told her wisely, “But among the Celestial Mages it’s pretty common to challenge one another and put their keys at stake for the winner to have, that is perfectly within the rules.”
“But that’s barbaric!” Lucy told him aghast, “I would never agree to put up any of my friends and family in a wager. You’re not objects to be bartered away!”
“Yes, well you’re a Heartfilia and a good girl,” Crux told her, one of his knobby hands managing to find her despite the darkness and patting her head affectionately, “I like to think we raised you right, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen or that it isn’t allowed and in this case it’s probably for the better. Libra would be far better off with you than that terrible excuse for a man.”
“So, I just have to find him and defeat him in battle?” she asked just to clarify frowning, “That seems a bit too easy, and I don’t like the idea that I may someday be up against another Celestial Mage and lose and then they’ll have the right to take all my keys away.”
“Well no, it’s a bit more complicated than that,” Crux assured her, “You can’t just randomly fight someone and take their keys after for you to have them legally by Spirit World standards you need to state what keys you want before the battle, state what keys you’re going to give and at the end they have to officially surrender the keys to you, otherwise it doesn’t count.”
“I can’t do that,” Lucy protested him aghast, “I could never wager one of you! Isn’t there a different way to do it?”
“I’m afraid not Lucy,” Crux told her gently patting her head sympathetically, “The only way to get keys by official standards are if they’re gifted to you, if they’re purchased, or in this approved dueling manner.”
“But Everlue said he took Libra’s key from her previous holder,” Lucy protested feebly, trying desperately to find a work around.
“As I recall he technically traded it for her life, which is unfortunately a form of purchase,” Crux told her sadly, “However because it was under duress you’ll notice Libra isn’t functioning at her full capacity. You said she couldn’t pin you down while you were moving, that’s either because of the restrictions placed on her key and contract because of the manner in which it was obtained, reluctance on her part to do as she’s told, or most likely a mixture of the two.”
“I didn’t realize there could be stipulations put on contracts like that,” Lucy admitted frowning and wondering why she hadn’t been told.
“That’s because we knew you’d never go about trying to take keys that weren’t yours, and the chances of you meeting another person claiming to be a Celestial Mage in Fiore is actually incredibly low, therefore you didn’t need to know,” Crux told her gently apparently reading her mind.
“It’s one of the few things the Celestial Spirit King can do to protect us from bad holders,” Padfoot piped in, “It’s not much, but it’s at least something.”
“But wait, what about Ophiuchus and Pyxis?” Lucy suddenly recalled, “I took those keys from that guy who kidnapped me way back then! Are their contracts limited?”
“There was a little bit of debate about Ophiuchus,” Crux admitted a tad reluctantly, “But technically he wasn’t actually contracted to the man who summoned him that time, so you didn’t technically steal him. On top of that the man who summoned him had actually stolen him, and killed his former holder, who’d also stolen him in the first place, and the last person who’d owned him officially had long since died. Plus, Ophiuchus himself was the one who ordered you to take his key, and well, he is a Black Key, the one wild card and is given some exceptions. In this case he err, put his metaphorical foot down and insisted your contract was legitimate and would take no complaints or objections.”
Somehow that didn’t surprise her. The Serpent could be incredibly stubborn and prideful. He also had a history of eating contractors he disliked, one of the only known Celestial Spirit keys to do be able to inflict harm on their summoner, though she’d heard the Crystal keys could as well, it made sense he would be able to do things like decide whether his contract was fully legitimate or not.
“Pyxis on the other hand was much more straightforward,” Crux continued pulling her from her thoughts, “You didn’t actually take him or the others that were with him, they were seized by members of the law. In these kinds of cases the Celestial Spirit World almost always cedes to Earthland law, which they did. His key was then considered a gift, as it was given to you by members of the law to decide what you wanted to do with it.”
“Well that’s something at least,” she told them breathing a sigh of relief that neither of her spirits was under a limited contract and that she wasn’t in trouble with the Spirit World. She figured she would’ve been told if she had been, but it was nice to be reassured just in case.
“Great, now that you’re reassured we should probably be focusing on Libra. I mean we could hide in here until the fighting is done, but leaving the fire bug and the annoying blue cat thing to do all the work leaves a bad taste in my mouth, plus I don’t think they’ll last long against her, Gravity isn’t something you can really fight with fire,” Padfoot pointed out sardonically.
“Right of course,” Lucy assured him, refocusing on the task at hand, “Even if we can’t get her key, it’s still probably easiest to take out Everlue if we can, but we’ve got to find him first.”
“W-We’re not rescuing Libra?” Cam piped up for the first time clearly surprised, “B-but why not? That man is terrible! We shouldn’t leave her with him. B-Being with a bad master is a-awful, the worst thing in the w-world. I think it’s better to have n-no master sometimes than a bad one like him.”
“I don’t want to,” she told her spirit grimly, “But we don’t have any other choice. I won’t risk any of you, which means I can’t wager any of my keys for his, which means I can’t take her from him legally. I’ve considered doing in illegally, but I don’t want to risk getting any of you in trouble in the Spirit World either, or to force any sort of limits on a contract, so I don’t have many options.”
“Y-You can use my key,” Cam told her, his voice shaky but determined, “I-I know I’m n-not worth much, and he may not except, b-but we should try.”
“Mine too,” Crux added into the sudden silence that followed that incredibly brave proclamation, “We should definitely rescue Libra if we can. It’s the right thing to do dear.”
“B-but…!” Lucy tried to protest utterly flabbergasted.
“It’s our choice, our free will,” Padfoot told her gently nudging her elbow in assurance, clearly throwing his lot in with the other two, “Besides it doesn’t matter if our keys are up for wager because we’re definitely going to win, so it doesn’t matter anyway!”
She wanted to argue, or worse, forbid them from risking it, but then Padfoot was right, it was their choice, and if she did that she wouldn’t be any better than the other Celestial Mages who treated them like tools without wills of their own. It wouldn’t be right, and she’d absolutely hate it if someone did it to her, so there was only one choice.
“Alright,” she agreed girding herself up, “Then the plan is this, track down Everlue, trick him into agreeing to wagering the key, because I doubt he’ll give it up otherwise, and win. We can do that.”
And they would, because she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
…down the side of the building. He was lucky most Dirjaani buildings had flat rooves. He hit this one nearly too hard, pulling in his arms at the last minute to roll over his side. But alive, and nothing broken. For all the glass around him, that was a start.
As he recovered his footing, he looked up to the window he’d just fallen from. It wasn’t surprising to see the brute looking out of it, the sounds of another close behind. In the spirit of his last performance, Link gave a salute, his other hand dragged along with. Then the Yiga began to move and he nodded quickly. “Time to go.”
It was harder than he wanted to admit to get to a running start to the next roof. He didn’t know if he wanted to blame the manacles restricting his arms or that he wasn’t used to running in clothes like these. And then he landed on the next roof over, and he was only focused on reaching the next one when the gap was not as far as he would have liked.
As Link reached the fifth roof, he made a decision: it was the manacles. Unable to truly use his arms for balance, he was getting thrown off too much, spending too much energy on rebalancing when he needed to be running. One look over his shoulder told him how much of a gap he had. It wasn’t much. He needed to make it bigger.
Dirjaan’s weave gave him an opening. He diverted from the path he’d been taking parallel to the street below, now moving to a tile slope that headed over it. He had no time to brace, speeding up even as he was sliding down before leaping.
He hit hard on the other side, more tiles scrambling to the ground behind him. But the street was too wide. He looked back once to see if his pursuers would attempt it. Their agility was considerable, but there was only so much to be done against gravity. One doubled back, the other shaking his head as he debated the jump a little longer. Link didn’t wait on the decision.
Continuing to run, Link cleared to another roof top. There was a lightning rod atop it, or something like it. Not the time to debate. Copper wasn’t enough to break gold, in his opinion, but it would brace. Before he strung the chain around it, he pulled the drifemece from his belt and wedged the blade into the coils. A shape edge and an anchor, Link planted himself behind, yanking hard as he watched the Yiga getting closer.
Metal groaned, ached, bent. There was definitely iron under the copper wiring here, but it was thin. And not meant to have this much force applied to it. He was losing his grip, the drifemece was going to slide out. And the Yiga were getting closer.
Too close, actually. Link was so focused watching, he almost missed the first chain breaking. He had to dodge a swing, momentum thrown as the chain shattered and he was sent to the floor.
He didn’t have long. One hand braced the ground, the other reached for the drifemece. Link swung behind the remainder of the lightning rod, a slash of his knife at the Yiga’s leg before a knee cracked into the back of the same leg in follow-up. The Yiga stumbled, making a grab for Link, but he was too slow. The other brute catching up, Link was already sprinting off to the next roof before either had a second chance.
The chain broken, he was gaining ground. It gave him a moment to assess the success. Mixed. One manacle had been split off, the gold warped and rent off when he’d fallen. It had left a gash on his arm, not very deep, but definitely painful. The other manacle remaining on his right hand. The ear cuffs were still on and his hearing was normal. He felt safe to assume the enchantment was not broken.
There were more problems now to solve as Link cleared another roof. They were gathering attention in the streets, crowds stopping to look up and watch who was causing such a scene. Not conducive to fleeing below, where the crowd might have given him cover otherwise. Less conducive: he was running out of rooftops. It wouldn’t be immediate, plenty of streets to jump across now that he had full use of his arms. But there were too many market squares breaking up the space. They were pushing him off course, something the straggling Yiga was trying to use to corner him. He was one bad set of streets away from a problem, and still no idea where he was going. He needed cover to lose him and he was finding precious little of that.
“Not good. Not good, not good,” he heaved between breaths, arms swinging hard as he jumped another street. It would buy him time. He risked the gap, his left hand going to the bag. His sword, his shield, something. He was sure a Hylian fighting on Dirjaan’s rooftops was a great image. One he couldn’t worry about, not if he wanted his head to stay in place.
But the bag still felt testy, his hand in proximity making it swell. He pulled his hand away before he could damage it further. It wasn’t an option, he’d have to do this the old-fashioned way. He needed to get to the streets, he needed to get lost.
The necessity presented it sooner as something lodged itself into a second story wall inches away from him. Link looked to his side long enough to see the arrow trembling from the impact. He needed to get his head down before their aim got better behind him.
At the next intersection, he started searching for an awning. The slope should alert the people on the street below to clear out of the way, hopefully. He just needed a clear landing—
Another arrow embedded itself into the stone behind him, this one grazing his shoulder. Instinct rolled him to the side early, to the nearest surface off the roof. It was not stone or tile though for this overhang, but cloth, and his weight soon sent him crashed down to the street below as the supports can out and swung him away from the walls.
Dust scattered as Link rolled clear of the debris. He wanted to turn, to apologize, but urgency forced him on faster. Coughing as dirt and sand filled the air, Link pushed himself slowly up, trying to get back to running before he was fully standing.
He didn’t get far.
Gudina was not close, probably a block away. But the path had cleared for the collapse of the shop covering, and there was no one to block him from view. There was no one who could have. And the air between them started to freeze as they locked eyes.
Link hissed something in Hylian as reason kicked back in. He pushed himself back to his feet fully, starting to double back before he heard something behind him, something like shattering pottery. His attention remained ahead, at the bigger problem.
Not here, he thought. They weren’t doing this here. But he didn’t see a whole lot of places to run.
The street went up in shock. Still searching for answers, Link spun around to see what had surprised them, what magic trick Gudina had—he found shocked faces looking at
him
. One of the Yiga was scanned the street, looking like Link wasn’t there. Brow bending, Link turned back to Gudina. The expression was not as visible, but he also seemed surprised. And irritated.
Before Link could try to understand what happened, someone grabbed him, and he was pulled into the doorway of a nearby shop.
The commotion continued outside as Link found himself pushed into the corner of this building, a finger held to his mouth to be quiet. He didn’t argue, holding his breath the best he could against the pounding in his chest. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust from the afternoon sun to the dimly lit building, but the quiet became a lot easier when he recognized the face.
Star’s focus was bent on the street, the stars along her skin shimmer a fraction brighter. Two steps behind of her, hood up and blocking Link from view, was Saddiqah. The glow faded as Star began to motion towards the back of the shop. Saddiqah didn’t argue, pulling Link along with her as Star backed towards the door, her attention ahead as they retreated.
There was no talking as they left out the back door, and not for blocks. They hurried past Bladesingers now rushing back towards where Link had fallen. Heads low and covered, they hurried the other way until Dirjaan buried them as the sands took the desert.
Finally, Star led them into a courtyard, a single fountain decorating the space. At the heart of it, an anxious Hamuus looked up, Ambrose not far behind with only slightly more muted concern. Hamuus clocked the blood down Link’s wrist, magic teeming in his palms in cerulean as Saddiqah watched their entrance.
“What happened?” Link asked before anyone else could.
“You’re one to ask, you’re the one they took,” Hamuus replied, a tense laugh as the wound started to close.
“We were not followed, but I will keep this cove hidden,” Star stated, a hand on Hamuus’s shoulder as the stars beneath her skin began to shine once more. Link watched Star this time to understand what had happened in the street, seeing how the air shifted and the colors flickered in a different hue. The entries to the plaza rippled with something, but looking through it was like looking through a fractalled window.
“What magic is that?” Link asked Hamuus as a cool feeling washed over Link’s arm and the pain ebbed.
“Star is a talented illusionist. Even your friend is having trouble looking through it,” Hamuus confirmed, nodding as he continued working. It seemed to be helping his nerves, something to do, and Link didn’t mind the treatment.
“Sayre, what happened?” Saddiqah demanded as their cloak settled and Star returned to the fountain with the others.
“Someone grabbed me at the—the debate was a trap for me,” Link finished his other hand grabbing Hamuus’s arm. Hamuus looked up from his spellwork a moment to look into Link’s eyes. “You said it was a trap, it was. They were trying to find me.”
“And they did,” Ambrose growled, the depth of it fortunately contained.
Link sighed, a vein of guilt pulling at him. He broke eye contact with Hamuus. “They did.”
“We couldn’t have known,” Saddiqah said, even as Link didn’t want to accept that. “Sayre, we couldn’t have known. Everything Zelda has told you made it clear that your identity was secret, we couldn’t have known they could respond that quickly.”
“They knew to go to the university because Hamuus announced me at the Forum,” Link replied, watching Saddiqah as fatigue caught up. “And they knew about the teleportation spell, that’s what this was for.” He held up the remaining manacle.
“What did they want?” Ambrose asked, enough gravity that Link thought was fitting for the conversation.
“They wanted me to talk to Gudina, he wanted me to join him,” Link said as Hamuus pulled back, his eyes miles away. Link didn’t like this; he didn’t like making people feel panicked or worse. But what else could he say? He turned to Ambrose. “Kenelm was there.”
At that, Ambrose tightened. “What did he say?”
“A lot of things. A lot of things you owe us answers on already,” Link stated, mad at how angry he sounded. It wasn’t Ambrose’s fault; it was his own fault for getting caught. All the work Shade had done, all the training he’d gone through, he shouldn’t have gotten caught. But he still was. “But we don’t have time now. We need to get out of Rahaal. This isn’t safe.”
“You can’t abandon Rahaal,” Hamuus stated, panic filling his face. He took both of Link’s hand. “My friend, you cannot. Not only for this threat, but if Gudina had his way, there will be no other opportunity for you to reach the temple, the Stone that waits inside.”
“And if we stay, we’re right at the heart of all of his plans,” Link returned. He wanted to give something more comforting to hear. But he couldn’t put Saddiqah and Ambrose at risk. Not like this. They needed more information, and sitting in the middle of it was the worse place to find that information.
“Sayre, listen to yourself. We might not get another chance at this,” Saddiqah replied, putting an arm in to pull Link a step back from Hamuus. Link pressed his hands to his face, a dozen responses in his head. He didn’t know what to do. Saddiqah at least was able to cut through the fog. “Look, we’re all spooked. We got cornered. We thought we knew better, and we found out we were wrong. But you got out. And we cannot walk away now.
You
can’t walk away now, that’s not who you are.”
Letting out a long breath through his nose, Link nodded. “I know.”
“I don’t mean as the Hero, Link,” Saddiqah added, leaning some more to look him in the eyes. She stared him down long enough that he had to fight off the dread building in his chest. If he didn’t, Saddiqah might kill him. And he didn’t like those odds.
“Ok. Ok. You’re right,” he replied, putting his hands up. “We need to get to the temple. The city is still not safe right now, so we work on whatever we’re going to need to do to open the dungeon in the temple.”
“Before we do that, you need to tell us what happened. Fully. So we know what we’re up against,” Saddiqah said, flicking him on the forehead. Link winced, a hand going up to rub it as Saddiqah folded her arms. “We’re not running off without knowing what happened. That’s how we get back into this mess.”
“And you need to get that off,” Ambrose added, pointing to the gold band still around Link’s wrist.
“I can do that,” Hamuus volunteered, holding up a hand. He barely waited for Link to offer the arm, mostly because adrenaline seemed to be wearing off. “But maybe we sit, eh? Things are feeling, well.”
“Sit,” Link agreed, following Hamuus to take a seat beside the fountain, thinking on where to begin recapping everything that happened.
What followed was the best he could recount from the time he’d been taken from the university to him running back into his friends. Skipping over some of the details. As much as he was still fixated on asking Ambrose questions, it wasn’t the time. He didn’t want to get Hamuus and Star wrapped into that as well. The business with Gudina was enough, many times over.
When he finished his story, Link sat to listen to the other end of things as Hamuus undid the spell and removed the manacle. After Link had been grabbed, the forum had continued to erupt for a long time. Gudina didn’t seem to have much interest in the actual discussions after that, even if he presented real arguments he wanted to hear counters to. Mostly for the students, the professors had been forced by the honor of the university to uphold the rest of the debate once it had been brought back to order.
And by then, they had been behind any hopes of stopping Link from being kidnapped. Which had led to a rapid plan to try and find him, dividing them up into the groups Link had seen before they were all together again. Ambrose and Hamuus coordinated with Shammaail and the Bladesingers to listen for news of a disturbance, of which Link had caught quite a big one. The rending of the lightning rod might have been one of the first blunders that actually got eyes on the chase over mild concern. And using the Gossip Charm, Ambrose and Saddiqah coordinated her and Star tracking Link down while Shammaail was directed for the Yiga. Star had vanished Link in an illusion before pulling him off the street, not a moment too soon, and the rest was shared history.
“What are you going to do about those?” Saddiqah asked, pointing to the ear cuffs as Link was removing them.
Link looked at the golden trinkets a moment longer before turning to Star, who was still maintaining their illusion spell based on the way she shimmered. “I don’t think I can keep wearing these. There’s too much of a risk.”
“I agree. I apologize that they put you in such great danger,” Star said, taking the cuffs back from him, setting them into the remaining manacle. She had had some interest about this.
“It’s not your fault they’re after me,” Link said, shaking his head but Star hushed him.
“Do not argue with me. I was not appointed as moderator for the university’s forum for no reason,” she chided, wagging a finger in his direction. “We all share in this, none of us carry the blame alone.”
Link nodded, holding comment as Star stowed both gold pieces. “You were very brave. Both of you. Standing up to Gudina couldn’t have been easy.”
“It was terrible. And he knows it,” Star answered, her face screwing up at the memory before she shook the thought off with a shudder. “He is not the man he was.”
“Did you know him before?” Link asked, looking in particular at Hamuus. There had been a comment in the debate, and Hamuus appeared to need no reminder.
Hamuus drew in a deep breath, nodding. “Yes. He…Gudina used to speak at the university very often. He was a gifted orator, even if some of his philosophy was radical. Not ‘end the world’ radical then, but he was still inspiring to listen to. And the reason I wanted to study theology for a time.”
“You said he was a speaker,” Saddiqah commented, her tone testing the definition.
“He was. In part. He was not a full vafyaa’aa, but he held great respect in those circles. His duties to his people kept him away from spiritual pursuits. And many found his teachings too violent,” Hamuus explained, not looking at anyone in particular. “And then twelve years ago, he—he wandered into the Barren Lands and we assumed that was the end of his tale. Until last year, when he returned in the middle of the monsoon season.
“That was when he started…I don’t know what to call it. I know some people are confused on what olive means, but it is not
that
,” Hamuus went on, a hand swinging out to the side in frustration.
That was a confirmation Link wanted. He wasn’t sure if his eyes had been playing tricks on him. “So he wasn’t like that before?”
“No, not when he left. And when he came back, the first sights say they saw it in patches,” Hamuus answered, rubbing a hand on his forearm to indicated a small space. “Now it overtakes him. I fear what the Barren Lands showed him that could do that.”
“Magic does that,” Ambrose said, pulling attention back to him. “Taking on too much magic, it warps the body.”
“Is there something that powerful in the Barren Lands?” Saddiqah asked, the question pointed. Link didn’t defend Ambrose this time on it. He wanted to know.
But Ambrose nodded, no attempts to evade. “Deep in, across the country, further than any mortal should be able to reach. He would have had a guide.”
“Who could have done that?” Saddiqah asked even as Link knew the answer.
“Kenelm.” Ambrose locked eyes with Link on that. “Or Morena.” Link’s mouth thinned as he debated on the question he wanted to ask.
“Then we’re lucky he has one less guide now,” Saddiqah interjected, leaning in between the two. “But we need to keep moving. You need to get to the temple. I’m not sure as the Hero matters anymore.”
“We can find out after the temple,” Star said, something particular in her eyes. It was the same determination he had seen between her and Hamuus before. “But we should go, while Shammaail has eyes on our enemy. Before we lose the chance.”
There was no arguing with Star. No one seemed to have the energy to. The turn of the events of the day, Link was feeling lucky to still have energy to keep running as they dove back into the ocean of people that was in Dirjaan. Between their resident guide and Star’s illusion magic, they found no challenge crossing. It was a relief, particularly as their destination loomed closer.
When Link had arrived in Dirjaan, he had thought that the Temple of Radiant Fire was made of obsidian. That was not the case on closer inspection. This building was made of marble, a marble that swirled in onyx and ivory and gold. The way the swirls danced on the walls of the building, it almost looked like a sandstorm itself, or the dancing waves of a fire.
There was no barrier for entry either, something they took with great relief as they slipped into the crowd to disappear again. The visitors of the Temple of Radiant Fire were bent in prayer, the song-chants in Gerudo echoing through the towering hall and mingling with the flame and incense smoke. Speakers attended to the altars and led group prayers in the segments of the building, a few sitting in alcoves to give sermons. It was peaceful. Link hoped to keep it that way.
Hamuus took the lead here, pulling aside one of the speakers and making a request in Gerudo before he returned to their group. “They are going to find a friend of mine, for entry into the sanctum I hope.”
It was a moment to breathe, and Link took it gratefully. He turned to look between the grand depictions of the Goddesses. He found the Golden Trio, far more element than any person form here. As his circle completed, he turned to look at Saddiqah as she watched the statue of Din.
“I never thought I’d see Her again,” Saddiqah muttered under her breath, before she caught Link watching. She grinned, before motioning up to the statue. “I remember staring at Her every time the caravan would visit Dirjaan. This was always the depiction that felt the most right.”
Link again looked up at Din as She towered over them. She was wreathed in flame, was largely flame as Her hair danced and the stone tried to move to live up to the element that had been carved. And in Her hands, She held a fraction of the golden fire in a lantern as it dangled down towards them. Link had to agree, it was a fitting altar to the Fire Goddess.
“When was the last time you were here?” he asked, hoping for a topic not from today.
“Twenty years ago, give or take,” Saddiqah said as her smile spread. “Do you know what ‘Alheri’Din’ means, Sayre?”
“I’ve kinda gathered it wasn’t something I should translate,” Link replied, puffing his cheeks and letting the air spill out.
Saddiqah laughed, before shaking her head. “No. I mean, it gets used that way a lot, but no.” She was still watching Din, with a deep reverence. “It means Din’s Grace. Looking at Her, you can feel it.”
He turned to lock eyes with the statue once more. It was breathtaking, awe-inspiring. He could understand why people would come here to prayer, to feel Din’s presence. He did not tell Saddiqah that he could not. But he’d never had much affinity for Din either. And less today.
“Hamuus.”
The name pulled them from their conversation as one of the speakers left her sermon. She greeted Hamuus first and then Star briefly, both in Gerudo before she noticed the rest of their group and turned to Hamuus patiently but with expectation.
“Of course. This is Vafyaa’aa Urwa, in service of Nayru,” Hamuus introduced, before turning back to Urwa. “These are visitors from…abroad.” He nodded a little tightly, glancing around the chambers, to which something dawned on Urwa’s face and she nodded in returned.
“We spoke of this before you left,” she replied.
“Yes, yes, before I left,” Hamuus concurred, eyes darting over to Link and then back to Urwa. “My friend, you are my dearest counselor and your advice means the world to me. Have you heard word of what occurred in the university today?”
Urwa’s face grew a little more grave, looking between them again with the knowing look of someone whose job had them reading people all day. She added as she looked between them, “As well as the news from the Forum.”
“Could we have a word then? Prayer, in private?” Hamuus pleaded.
Saddiqah leaned in. “It could take a while.” When Hamuus and Urwa looked back, she explained, “Sometimes he, uh, gets a little lost in prayer.”
Urwa raised a brow at this as she turned to Link again, before nodding. “I will see what we can do. Follow me.”
With that, they followed Urwa on into the temple, the sounds and smells of the building weaving in and relaxing the muscles in a way Link appreciated it. It was not fully restorative, but it was meditative in a way he needed. Particularly as he thought about what was likely about to happen. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to face Shade after today.
From the back of the main hall, Urwa led them down a side hallway and then back through a service entrance into another grand chamber, much like the one previous. This one had far fewer statues though, just one: the Triforce pierced by the Master Sword, a golden flame wreathing it before a door set into the floor.
“This room is not visited often, but we should keep our voices down all the same,” Urwa warned as she pulled the door shut behind them.
“If it would not disturb the temple, I can turn heads the other way,” Star offered as she set a hand on Urwa’s. The speaker nodded, though she signaled to wait. Star acknowledged this and then remained behind as Urwa led them further in.
“This door enters the heart of the Temple of Radiant Fire beneath us,” Urwa explained as she approached the door in the ground. “It has been sealed since the Convergence, by the request of the last Hero. I assume you wish to enter it then?”
“There’s something in there I need to stop—” Link caught himself, expression falling as he again stumbled on the name. One already felt wrong, even more so in such a holy place.
To this, Urwa set a hand on his shoulder. “No evil may enter these halls. Our faith will not allow it. But I know of whom you speak, and this task is dear to me as well. As it is to many in Rahaal, I assure you.” She motioned ahead towards the door. “But let us not wait.”
Link nodded his gratitude before turning back to the door. He took a deep breath and walked ahead as his companions circled behind, pulled the Master Sword back out from hiding. It nearly leapt out of the bag and he almost dropped the sheath. Pausing for a moment before the small risen pedestal, he tapped the sheath to his forehead. “I’m sorry. It would have been a lot worse if we hadn’t though.”
He didn’t get an answer. He never got an answer from the sword, not out loud. Though there was a feeling of warmth in his chest, and a sense of duty rising. He hoped it meant it was alright as he threw his sword belt back over his head and drew the blade.
“What happens now?” Hamuus asked to Saddiqah and Ambrose.
“The last time he did one of these, he passed out in front of the Maru Tree for a few hours,” Saddiqah said, her eyes on Link’s back as he aligned the blade.
“He’s going to pass out? Should we…get something? A couch, this is good marble,” Hamuus commented in concern.
There was a laugh. Link couldn’t tell if it was Saddiqah or Ambrose, but it was Saddiqah who spoke next, “More of a trance. Communion kind of thing I think.”
“Oh, I see. What a wonder, this is truly a privilege then,” Hamuus muttered, awe threading into his voice.
That felt a little unearned. Not that Link could talk about Shade. But it still felt overly grand for what he was expecting. And he wasn’t thinking particularly Heroic thoughts of himself at the moment.
There was no time to sit around on that. They needed to keep moving. He needed to get this Sealing Stone while he could, and a meeting with Shade would take a while. He needed to get it over with. Drawing in a little more courage, he drove the Master Sword down.
And…
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
There’s something about tragedy that makes the whole world stand still.
In the few short seconds that I heard the horns blaring and the metal crunching, I knew I was screaming. My heart was racing and my lungs were pumping. And then my legs were moving, pushing me forward and driving me through the statues that were once people. But they weren’t anymore. People could move and they weren’t moving. Nothing was. Not a car on the street or a plane in the sky. The city was dead, and I could hear none of it.
But that didn’t matter to me now.
The whole fucking world could stay a statue if he was gone from it. I wouldn’t want it anymore.
And the most terrifying thing about that was I meant it. I didn’t care about any of this if Armin was gone, and I hadn’t known that until now. My life had always been so much more, but that was because I knew he was a part of it. I had been holding onto some guarantee that he would be there through all of the shit that went on in my life. But now I didn’t have that anymore. It was being ripped away from me, abruptly and violently, and I wasn’t sure I knew how to survive without it.
Without him.
“Armin!”
The word was a pained cry that ripped out of my throat as if it had been trapped in there for years. Broken and ragged, filled with more sorrow, more agony, than I would have ever thought possible. And it was loud enough to jerk dozens of eyes towards me. Eyes that didn’t matter. Eyes that were in my way.
The city was starting to move again.
And I was worried it wouldn’t wait for me. That it would take him away before I had the chance to get there. The chance to see him for what might be the last time.
“No.”
There was so much determination in a word that may as well have been a sob. It was nothing more than that, but right now it was the only thing I could feel. The unwavering refusal that something like this could be happening to me, to us. Because it couldn’t be. It wasn’t fair. This wasn’t supposed to be our world, our life. This wasn’t meant to be my struggle. What I had suffered through before was so much easier than this, and I wanted it all back now.
I wanted to sob over him. I wanted to be broken over him.
I wanted to live that eternity, as long as it wouldn’t be this.
Because what more did we have now? There was nothing left to fight for and even if there was, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t fight for him anymore. Not after this. Not after Armin. There were no words in the world that could make this better. Nothing he could say to take back what he’d done. Not that it mattered. Not that he would. The fact that Armin had discovered them that way told me he was over me now. And even if he wasn’t, it didn’t make a difference. I wouldn’t forgive him for this.
He wanted me to give up. He wanted it to end.
And now I would give him everything he asked for.
The sudden shift was almost alarming. Moments ago I would have never thought it would be possible to be this angry with someone I loved so much. But I was. I was furious. I didn’t want to imagine his face or speak his name, even though it had been all that plagued my mind just before the call. The call that ended everything. The call that stole it all away. A future I thought I wanted and a friend I couldn’t live without. All gone.
And I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
“Shit!”
I turned the corner and ignored the burning in my legs, refusing to let it slow me down now. Not when I was this close. Not when I had the chance to reach him, and I was almost certain that I could. I hadn’t been that far from the company, and I could hear the ambulances already. Loud blaring sirens, racing in the same direction as me. Sirens that could potentially make a difference, either good or bad. They could save his life or steal away the last moments I would ever have with him. And those were moments I wasn’t willing to give up.
Because I wouldn’t let him die without me.
If he left me now, it would have to be in my arms.
There was no other choice for him.
“Stop!”
I spat the word like it was a curse, hoping to banish away the thoughts that were quickly stirring the panic inside me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to help him this way if I saw him now. If he were conscious enough to see me. The terrified agony I was feeling inside would be nothing compared to his. And as impossible as it might have been, I knew I would have to be strong for the both of us. Even if it broke me apart afterwards.
I was willing to do it for him.
The trip from Bryant Park had never seemed so far before, but it was states away now. And I hated myself for being there at all. I had fallen asleep by the fountain, my phone forgotten in my hands and my mind lost to a past that had been bliss compared to the present. And for a few hours, I actually wanted to return to it. I wanted to stitch up all the wounds between us and find a way back into his heart. Back to a time when we were happy. Back to a time when I could wake up without him there and know that he wasn’t far away.
But I didn’t know that anymore.
And for once, it didn’t matter.
I had lost him, and I could accept that now. Because holding on to him had cost me so much more in the end. And it was entirely my fault. I’d used so many words to try to win him back, and in the mess of it all I’d managed to convince him of Erwin’s feelings. And it’d only taken a handful of hours after that to bring the two of them together again. It was almost sickening how easily they could turn away from us, as if everything had been a temporary bandage on the wound of their relationship. One that was no longer necessary.
One that had been thrown away.
And I was almost happy for it. But I couldn’t help but wish that it hadn’t happened this way. Not at the cost of him. Not at the cost of my best friend. Armin wasn’t worth finding out that I never really had a chance with him at all. Because that was what it came down to in the end. If the few words I said were all it took to send Levi back into Erwin’s arms, then he was heading there all along. That was where he truly wanted to be, and I was just a detour. Someone to waste time with.
Someone that didn’t matter.
“Fuck you…”
The words left my tongue with no hope of finding their destination. He wasn’t close by and somehow I knew that he never would be again. But it still felt good to say. Even if it was just to his face in my mind, it was what I needed right now. In this moment where I had no peace, no hope, no joy left. Nothing but agony and terror writhing in my gut, threatening to end me before I could get to him. And I almost wanted to give in. I almost wanted to fall to my knees and succumb to all of the emotions that had been piling up until now.
But I couldn’t do that to him.
Awake or not. Alive or not. Armin needed me.
And I would be there for him. Until he took his last breath and even after.
Because there was nothing else I could do. Nothing else I wanted to do. I couldn’t imagine a life without him, and I wasn’t willing to try. If Armin died, I would go with him. Maybe not physically, but everything else inside of me would follow. I wouldn’t be the person that I was now. I wouldn’t know how to be without him. And I wouldn’t even try. Losing him would mean losing myself. I would have to find a new life to live in.
And I didn’t want to do that.
I didn’t want to turn the corner and watch my life get ripped away as if it were really that quick, that easy, that fucking simple to take away everything I had. Even though I knew it was. It was all holding on by the thinnest of threads, and I was seconds away from snapping the string and crushing it all.
I could hear everything now. The panicked voices, the shifting of metal, the rush of the EMTs.
The smell of burnt rubber was filling my nose, and I wanted to gag on it.
And as I turned the corner, I started to.
They didn’t look like cars anymore. The twists of metal that were once familiar were now nothing but a demented sculpture. Like two angry beasts that were torn apart and forced together all at once. Covered in thousands of fragments of shattered glass, glittering in the sunlight as if they wanted to be so much more beautiful than they really were. But they couldn’t be. They could never be.
Not when they were covered in blood.
“Oh god, no…” It was a whisper even I couldn’t hear. “No, please, no!”
But the whisper started to grow. And as I watched them lift the body out of the car, the words turned into panicked screams. His hair was covered in blood; the soft blonde stained with so much red that I was almost certain there would be nothing left. That it would always be that color. That disgusting color that I had once loved so much, and now it was the one thing I didn’t want to see. Not on him. Never on him.
I had to get it off.
I moved forward without a clue as to what I was doing. But it didn’t really matter in the end. As long as I could get to his side and get the blood off of him, I was convinced it would all be okay. That as soon as it was gone, as soon as I could see his face, everything would be fine again. He would open his eyes and scold me for worrying so much, and then after that we could go home. We could move on. We could forget the mess of the past six months and the hell that was this internship. We could learn to be happy again.
I just had clean off the blood before that could happen.
“Sir.”
The hands on my shoulders confused me at first. I couldn’t understand why they were there or how they could stop me. But they were. I wasn’t going forward, and the more I struggled the tighter the grip got. I couldn’t get to him, and I was quickly beginning to realize that I wouldn’t be able to. They were going to put him in the ambulance and take him away from me before I could even see if he was okay. Before I could know if he was still alive.
Before I could say goodbye.
If it wasn’t already too late for that.
And if it wasn’t, there was a chance that the moment would slip away quickly. It could be gone before I managed to see him again.
And I wasn’t willing to let that happen to us.
I wouldn’t let this be our last moment.
“Armin!”
The word was nothing more than a desperate scream, but it was all I needed to find my strength again. They had no chance of holding me back now, and in the next breath I found myself running towards the white doors of the ambulance and the body that was being placed inside. I had to see him, if nothing more. I had to know if there was a chance that he was still alive at all. Even if it was small. Even if it couldn’t last, I had to know. Because there couldn’t be anything worse than the agony of being kept in the dark like this. The fear of not knowing if I had already lost everything that mattered.
“Sir!”
Another set of hands caught my shoulders and two other sets followed in from behind. They grabbed my arms and held me in place, but I couldn’t find the strength to care. Because it wouldn’t change a thing. It didn’t matter what kind of trouble I would get in. And it wouldn’t make a difference to me whether they tried to hold me back with ten people or the two gorillas from The Wall. I would drag them all into the fucking ambulance if I had to. They weren’t going to stop me here.
“Let me go!” It was a growl at the very best, and I barely managed it in my struggle. “Damn it, you bastards! I said let me go! I have to see him!”
“We can’t allow you to do that.” The man grunted as he tried to wrestle me away from the doors. I was so fucking close I could taste it. “We have to get him to the hospital right now. Every second is going to make a difference, and you’re only going to delay us.”
The fight went out of my body so quickly that I almost hit the ground.
“He’s alive?”
It was a whisper, but I knew he heard it anyway. I could see it on his face; a look of pity that told me he was aware of how I felt. He had seen it a thousand times before. But he couldn’t possibly know what it was like. What it was like to hope beyond hope that the person you loved was still alive, and that they would stay that way despite all the odds stacked against them.
And no one could know. No one else had a clue. Not until it happened to them.
Which was why the pity on his face worried me so much. Whatever chance Armin had was small. And it was slipping away more and more with each second that passed.
“He’s alive.” The voice drew part of my attention back, but the rest of me was trapped inside the ambulance with Armin, waiting. “And we’re going to try to keep it that way.”
The hands left me and I saw the man walking away before my mind caught up with what was happening. But I couldn’t bring myself to hold him back. Not when doing so could risk Armin. So I followed instead, running to keep up at his side as he moved to the driver’s side door.
“Where are you going?” The words cracked in my throat, choked on the fear that was still surging through me. “Which hospital?”
The man pulled open the door and regarded me with a look. “You his friend?”
“I’m his family.”
He nodded towards the interior and dropped into his seat. “Get in.”
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Time is meaningless when the only thing surrounding you is despair.
Agony eats up everything else. And pain has a talent for twisting the minutes into hours and the hours into days. Yet somehow the time still manages to slip by so quickly. Eternal seconds that pass by in the blink of an eye. I had spent years in that chair waiting for him, waiting for an answer. But if you had asked me for the time I would have been convinced that only a minute had passed.
The hours I spent in that small waiting room were simultaneously the longest and shortest of my life.
And I wasn’t sure how I made it through them at all.
Looking back on it, years from now, I wouldn’t be able to recall a thing. And it wasn’t because the memory wouldn’t be there. It wasn’t because I couldn’t remember. It was because I didn’t want to. And I never would. Even though the memories would always remain, bright and vivid, locked in sharp detail and forged into my mind by overwhelming amounts of fear and pain. Stuck in me forever. Scarred into me. And my only choice was to blur them away with a stubborn forgetfulness.
Even if he survived, I knew I would never want these memories. I wouldn’t want to remember this room or the panic that came with it.
Which was why I locked myself away from everything. I ignored my surroundings and trapped myself in my own thoughts, growing so distant that I almost didn’t hear her voice at all.
But it was the one thing I had been waiting for. And I couldn’t miss it now.
“Eren.” Mikasa breathed my name a second time and the sound was muffled in my hair. Her arms went around me and all at once I felt my body weakening against her, melting into a warmth I needed more than I wanted to admit.
And for the smallest moment, I was home.
“Mikasa.” Her name rattled in my throat like it was stuck there, but I couldn’t bring myself to care about the sound. Not now. Not when I had her here. Not when I knew I wasn’t alone anymore.
“How is he?” Mikasa brushed the hair off of my forehead in the same moment that she took the seat beside me. “Have you heard anything?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head and spared a quick glance at the clock. “I don’t even know how long it’s been since he went in there.”
“You called me as soon as you got here, didn’t you?” She paused, digging her phone out of her pocket. “So that was about an hour and a… damn it, Eren, I’m sorry.”
“You got here as soon as you could.” I shrugged, still eyeing the clock. I honestly couldn’t say when I called her, or how long I had been sitting here before I did. I barely remembered the call at all as it was.
“I still should have gotten here sooner.” She shook her head and shoved the phone into her pocket, collapsing back into the seat and pressing a hand flat over her eyes. “But first my boss, and then traffic was…”
She trailed off because we both knew exactly why the traffic was as bad as it was.
“I can’t remember when I called you.” I muttered into the temporary silence. I could feel her eyes on me, but I didn’t bother to meet her stare. I wasn’t sure I wanted to look at anything right now.
“You were in a lot of shock,” Mikasa whispered, taking my hand into hers and squeezing softly. I almost felt it. “I wouldn’t expect you to call me right away. After seeing Armin like that, you must have…”
She trailed off and her grip tightened, a tremor moving through her arm that told me she was shaking. She muttered a quick curse under her breath and then shook her head once more. “Those fucking drivers. Some people should just stay off the road. I can’t believe this—”
“Armin caused the accident.”
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, but I knew beyond a doubt that they were true. I had heard it all firsthand, and there was no denying that Armin was the one who had lost control. As badly as I wanted to blame the other cars, I knew I couldn’t. Even if they were the ones to hit him, it would have been avoidable if he were in a different state. If he would have just pulled over and put down the phone.
But he didn’t.
And now we were here.
“What do you mean he caused it?” She sounded just as shocked as I would have been if I hadn’t heard it all myself. “Armin’s the most careful driver I know. He won’t even pull out of a parking space unless everyone in the car is buckled up.”
I felt my stomach turn with the cold realization that I didn’t know whether or not he had worn his own safety belt. “Damn it…”
She put her hand on my back as I bent at the waist, pressing my forehead tight against my knees. “Eren… what happened?”
“He was upset.” I choked out the words and shut my eyes, fighting back the sudden wave of nausea. “He called me on the phone. He was crying and…”
“He was driving?” Mikasa cut me off sharply. “He called you while he was driving?”
I managed a nod, but I didn’t lift my head. “He wasn’t thinking.”
“Eren, it’s Armin. He’s always thinking.” Mikasa shot back, the worry clear in her voice now. “Why would he do that? What upset him that much?”
“He walked in on them kissing.”
“Them?” The tone of her voice told me she knew exactly who I was talking about, but she didn’t want to bring herself to believe it. And I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t want to believe it either. “Who’s them?”
“Erwin and Levi.” I muttered the name and tried to ignore just how much it hurt me to hear it out loud. I didn’t want it to affect me. I didn’t want to care at all. But I did. And as angry as I was, I knew I couldn’t just turn off my feelings the way I wanted to. But I had to try.
“Erwin and…” Mikasa whispered the name and her hand stilled on my back. “But Levi hates him. Why would he—”
“He doesn’t hate him.” I cut her off with the one truth I didn’t want to admit. “He wants to, but he doesn’t. He never has. There’s too much between them for that.”
“Eren, that doesn’t make sense.”
“Sure it does.” I muttered, shrugging her off and leaning back into the seat. I angled my head back and stared up at the ceiling, determined to keep the tears locked away where they belonged. “And to be honest, it’s probably why he never did anything with the revenge in the first place. He didn’t want to. Because Erwin means too much to him. And that’s why he’s going back to him now. He just needed me to get him to a point that—”
“Do you really think that’s all you were to him?”
Mikasa’s question stopped the words in my throat and I turned to look at her, trying to decide if she was actually kidding. But there was no humor in her eyes. No hint that this was some kind of twisted joke.
“Don’t tell me you’re actually on his side.” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice, and I didn’t want to try. “Don’t you dare say that you understand him when Armin is in the next room because—”
Mikasa’s hand covered my mouth, muffling the rest of the words with it. “You’re yelling.”
I jerked my head back from her hand and rolled my eyes. “I have every right to yell.”
“No you don’t.” Mikasa shot back, dropping her hand to her side. “I just asked you a question, Eren. I wasn’t picking a side. And for the record, I’m on yours. But you should already know that.”
“If that’s true, then why are you defending him?”
“I’m not defending him, Eren. I’m defending your feelings for him.” Mikasa shook her head and slumped back in her seat. “Excuse me for wanting to have some faith in your relationship.”
That stung more than I expected it to. And I wasn’t even sure why. “We don’t have a relationship anymore.”
“You’re right, you don’t.” Mikasa shrugged and angled her head to the side, fixing me with a stare. “So let’s just drop it, okay? He’s a fucking cheating asshole and you’re better off without him.”
“He wasn’t cheating.” I muttered, slipping down into my own seat. “We weren’t together when—”
“Now who’s defending him?” She cut me off, raising a brow.
“I’m not defending him.” I rolled my eyes and focused my stare on the clock. “I’m just stating a fact.”
“No, you’re defending him,” she countered. “Because as far as I see it, you two are still together. Especially after last night. You can’t tell me you didn’t come home because you were having a fucking sleep over.”
I felt my cheeks burn with the sudden sting of embarrassment. “It was just sex. It didn’t mean anything.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“No, I know it is.” I snapped, finally turning my stare back on her. “It didn’t mean anything, Mikasa. Not to him, at least. To be honest, he probably just did it to shut me up. He wasn’t even there when I woke up.”
Betrayal filled her eyes and her expression darkened as she turned to look away from me. She was still and silent, her body rigid, held in that position as if she were a statue. And after a while, I was convinced she wouldn’t move at all. But then a sigh rushed out of her mouth and she pushed a hand through her hair, in a motion that reminded me far too much of him. So much it actually hurt.
“This fucking sucks.”
Another crack in my heart. “You sound like him.”
“Don’t.” She held up a finger and fixed me with a warning glare. “Don’t compare me to him. Not after all of this.”
Clearly what I said was enough to shatter any opinion she had of him.
“So you’re mad at him now?”
“I fucking trusted him, Eren.” Mikasa muttered, her head leaning against the back of the chair as she slumped down. “I mean, I really did. I thought I understood him. Even with all the fuck ups, I could actually relate. I could get where he was coming from, even if I didn’t agree with it. But this… none of this makes sense.”
“Because he’s not the person you thought he was.” I shrugged, as if it could really be that simple. And I wanted it to be. “He wasn’t who I thought he was.”
“No,” she shook her head, frowning. “No, that’s not it. There’s got to be something more to it. I don’t just trust people, Eren. Not easily.”
“Maybe you’re wrong this time.”
“I can’t be.” Mikasa’s voice was so strong that I was sure she believed it herself. “I’m not wrong, Eren. I know I’m not. There has to be something more to it. I don’t see why he would just hurt you like this. Why he would kiss him like that. He loves you, Eren. I know he does.”
“Mikasa—”
“And trust me,” she cut me off before I could say more, holding up her hand. “I don’t want to admit to any of that. I want to hate him for everything that happened. I want to blame him for Armin. I want this to be his fault, but I just can’t see… how that can be the type of person that he is.”
“Why not?” I shot back, almost hating the fact that she could see the good in him when I couldn’t. “What makes him so perfect?”
“Nothing makes him perfect.” She shook her head and dropped her hand back to her side, shrugging once before sighing. “He’s not perfect. Not even close. But I see myself in him, Eren. That’s why I thought I knew him. That’s why I actually trusted him. And I know I would never do any of this. So why would he?”
“I don’t know.” I whispered the words because they were the only answer I had. The only one I was willing to give. Because I honestly had no idea why he had done any of it. But I knew it didn’t matter now. “I’m not going to forgive him, Mikasa. I can’t. Not after this. So does it really matter why he did it?”
“No,” she muttered, folding her arms and staring down at the floor. She crossed her legs at the ankle and closed her eyes, sighing again. “I guess it doesn’t matter at all. I just hate feeling like I was tricked by him.”
“You and me both.”
She didn’t say anything else, but I was almost wishing that she would. The temporary discussion, as painful as it was, was a breath of fresh air compared to all of the agony I had felt before she arrived. As much as I didn’t want to think about Levi and the mess that was my relationship, it was a happy alternative compared to the thought of what would come next. When the doctors would come out of that room to tell me whether I was alive or dead. And right now I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.
But at the same time, I couldn’t bear to wait for it any longer.
“When do you think we’ll know?” Mikasa’s voice was small, worried, and distant.
Exactly how I felt inside.
“I don’t know.” I whispered, my eyes finding the clock once more despite how truly useless it was. “But I hope it’ll be soon.”
I closed my eyes and tried to find a way to relax, but there didn’t seem to be any chance of that. Every time my mind started to slip away from this room, something managed to drag it back. A person opening the door, people crying in the other room, a cell phone buzzing. A sound that wouldn’t stop. Some insistent caller and the asshole who refused to pick it up.
“Eren,” Mikasa groaned and pushed at my arm. “Your phone.”
I dug the vibrating object out of my pocket and stared at the screen, my blood running cold. “Oh, fuck no.”
“Who is it?” Mikasa angled her head to the side and caught sight of the screen. “What the hell is that blonde headed fuck nugget calling you for?”
“Hell if I know.” I muttered, still staring at the screen. I was determined not to answer him, now or ever. There was no reason I needed to talk to Erwin again, and I had no desire to be caught in yet another one of his lies. He’d given me enough of those, and the last had been the worst.
Because I’d actually allowed myself to believe that he was a decent person.
And not the scum-sucking snail that he was.
“Give it to me.” Mikasa had plucked the phone out of my hand before she’d even finished her sentence. And it was pressed to her ear before I could get it back again.
“Listen here, you piece of shit,” Mikasa spat and narrowed her eyes, as if he were actually standing there in front of us. “You have no fucking right to call his phone. Not after what you did. You—”
Anger crossed her features, hard and fast, and suddenly I worried for my phone’s life. “Don’t you dare talk to me like you can order me around. You’re not going to get shit from me. I’m not giving the phone to Eren, and there’s no way in hell that you’re going to talk to Armin.”
Mikasa was starting to tremble now, and in the beat of silence I had to wonder what he was saying. And suddenly I realized that I wanted to know. No matter how terrible it was, no matter how much it broke me, I wanted to understand. I wanted to know why he hurt Armin this way. And if he had planned to do so all along.
“It’s all your fault! Do you understand that? You did this to him, you fucking bastard!” Mikasa’s voice grew louder and it took all I had to twist the phone out of her grip before she could say more.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Erwin’s panicked voice came in on the other end as I pressed the phone to my ear. “What did I do?”
“You know damn well what you did.”
“Eren.” He spoke my name like it was a prayer. Like he actually thought I would give him the time of day. “Where’s Armin?”
“That’s none of your business.” And it really wasn’t. Not after the things he had done to him. Not when he was the reason Armin was here. “Tell me why you did it.”
“Did what, Eren?” His voice was cautious, reaching, calculating. As if he were hoping I didn’t already know.
“Oh, fuck you. You already know what. So stop acting stupid. Stop acting like I don’t know.” I snapped, gripping my phone tighter. “Stop acting like I’m not the first fucking person he’d talk to after what you did.”
There was silence on the end, but it didn’t last long.
“I know he’s mad.” Erwin’s voice softened, but the worry was still there. And I hated the sound. “He has every right to be, and so do you. But what he walked in on, what he saw… Eren, it’s not what he thinks it is.”
That made my heart beat in a way I didn’t want to understand. A way I didn’t want to admit. Because in the end, it was pointless. No matter what he said, there was no hope for us. No reason for my heart to beat for a man who wasn’t mine.
“And what the hell was he supposed to think when your tongue was crammed down another man’s throat?” I shot back, refusing to say the name even to myself. We both knew who the other man was. “Do you expect him to believe that you tripped and his lips broke your fall?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.” Erwin’s voice was calm, collected. And I was sure he didn’t feel that way at all. “I kissed Levi. I’m not saying that I didn’t.”
“Fuck you.” The words were sharp and I didn’t regret them at all. Not for an instant. “You fucking lied to me. You said you would stay away from him and—”
“And I will,” he cut me off quickly. “If that’s what it takes, if that’s what you want, I will.”
“You already said that before,” I shot back. “And look what happened. You didn’t even last a day.”
“That’s because I didn’t go there for myself, Eren. I went there for you.”
There was a sharpness to his voice that had me itching to end the call, but his words stopped me from moving at all. And I wasn’t even sure why. I wanted to laugh at them and how ridiculous they must have sounded, but I couldn’t find the strength. Even worse than that, I wanted to believe them. And for a moment I actually thought I could.
But then I remembered who I was talking to.
“You went there for me.” It wasn’t even a question. Nothing but a sarcastic laugh. “Right. Did you kiss him for me, too?”
“I didn’t go there planning to kiss him.” Erwin’s voice was losing its careful edge of control, and I tried to ignore the emotions I could hear there. “I didn’t want that at first. But I… I wanted to say goodbye.”
“How many fucking goodbyes do you need?” I snapped with the sudden wave of anger that surged through me. “What the hell was The Wall? What was that dance?”
“Eren—”
“No,” I cut him off before he could say more, not wanting to hear a word of it. “That was your goodbye, Erwin. You had it then. The rest of this is just fucked up.”
“You were with him then.”
The words were careful, as if he were treading on thin ice. And if they meant what I thought, then he was.
“Excuse me?”
“You were with him when I was on stage. I couldn’t kiss him then.” Erwin paused, hesitating. “I wouldn’t have done that to you.”
“But you’d do it to Armin,” I shot back. “And that’s worse. You’re actually with him. Or you’re supposed to be, anyway.”
“He’d do it to me, too.”
There was so much certainty in his voice that I actually had to wonder if he knew. If he knew that Armin had kissed me yesterday, right before we got into the car with him. And maybe he did. But I wouldn’t betray Armin by assuming anything. If he knew, he was going to have to tell me himself. And even then, he wouldn’t get the truth out of my mouth.
“Even if he would,” I kept the words simple, dismissive, “Does that make what you did any better?”
“Not at all,” Erwin replied, “Armin doesn’t deserve any of the things I’ve done to him. He deserves so much better than me. And I don’t expect him to take me back after this.”
“Then why do you need to talk to him?”
“Because I want him to know that I didn’t do it to hurt him.” Erwin spoke softly, a deep pain in his words. “I want him to know that it didn’t mean anything. I love Levi, and I always will. But Armin means so much more to me. He is…”
Erwin paused, silent for a long moment before whispering, “He was my future.”
“And does Levi know that?” I tried my best to keep my voice indifferent. I didn’t want to admit that I cared.
“Of course he does. He feels the same way about you, Eren.” Erwin sighed softly and continued with words I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear. “He loves you more than anything, and he doesn’t want to lose you.”
I shook my head and shut my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “He already has.”
“Don’t say that.” Erwin’s voice held the same command I was used to, but it didn’t affect me now. “Don’t punish him for what I did.”
“I’m not. He doesn’t want me either.” I paused on the words, ignoring the pain that came with them. “It’s over, Erwin. I’m done fighting for him.”
“No, you’re not. You can’t be.” Erwin snapped, “Not when I’ve finally convinced him to fight for you.”
I felt the entire world slip out from under me. “You what?”
“What do you think I went there for? I already said it was for you.” Erwin continued, his voice still sharp. “I knew he wouldn’t just give in. Levi’s not that easy. He’s the type who needs to be pushed into realizing what he wants. And what he wants is you. It took getting him to give me up to admit that, but he did. He wants to fight for you, Eren. You’re everything to him.”
And in that moment, I believed him. Even if I didn’t want to, even if I knew I shouldn’t, I did. I believed every word and the fact that Levi actually wanted to fight for me. That what we had was worth fighting for. And I had believed that up until today. Up until a few hours ago, when the entire world was ripped apart. And it didn’t matter now. It didn’t matter that he wanted to fight, and it wouldn’t matter if he tried. It wouldn’t stop what happened to Armin.
It wouldn’t change the fact that I was losing my best friend because of him.
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Don’t say that, Eren.” There was so much fear in his voice, and I wasn’t sure whether I liked it or not. “I did not lose everything for nothing.”
He had no idea just how much he’d actually lost.
“Yes, you did.” I whispered softly, wanting to stop the words I knew I had to say. “Because that kiss was so much more than you realize. And whether he meant it or not, I can’t forgive him for this. I can’t forgive him for what he’s done. What you’ve done.”
There was a long silence on the other end, and I could practically feel the wheels turning in his head. “What happened, Eren.”
There was no question in his words. It was a command and nothing more.
“Armin’s in the hospital.”
From the other end, it sounded as if someone had actually ripped the still beating heart out of his chest. And the gasp that followed was filled with nothing but fear and pain, to the point that I almost felt sympathy for him. But I couldn’t. Not when he was the cause of it all.
“What happened?” Erwin’s voice was sharp with panic, and I could hear the jingle of keys as he picked them up. “Where is he? Which hospital?”
“He got in a car accident. And you can have one fucking guess whose fault that is.” My voice may as well have been venom. “And no, I’m not going to tell you where he is. Trust me, he doesn’t need you here.”
“Damn it, Eren,” Erwin hissed into the phone. “This isn’t a joke. Don’t risk your friend just because you’re pissed off at me. Suck it up and get the fuck over it. Tell me where he is.”
“Why? So you can show up and make it worse?” I could hear the rough growl of frustration on the other end, and for a moment it was almost comical.
“I won’t go to him, if that’s what you want.” Erwin’s voice was slow, just barely under control. And I didn’t believe a word of it. “Just let me know where he is so I can take care of everything.”
“He doesn’t need your fucking money.” I snapped, suddenly realizing what he meant. And for some reason it pissed me off that much more. I didn’t want him to come to Armin’s rescue like some white knight riding in on a big bag of cash. As if that could somehow make everything better.
“I don’t care if he needs it or not. I’m going to take care of him.” Erwin paused, and when he spoke again his voice was nothing more than a low command. “Tell me where he is.”
“Go fuck yourself, Commander.”
“Eren, I will search every fucking hospital in this goddamn state if I have to, but I will find him.” Erwin’s voice continued in the same low tone. And to anyone else, it might have actually been intimidating.
But I really didn’t give a shit anymore.
“Good luck with that.”
I killed the call and held down the button to switch off the phone before shoving it into my pocket, letting a sigh rush out of my lungs. That had taken so much more than I expected, so much more than I wanted to admit. And in the end, it didn’t change a damn thing. But it wasn’t like I could expect it to.
“What did he say?”
“We can’t let him near Armin,” I muttered, knowing it was really only a matter of time until he found him. But I couldn’t let that happen. I wasn’t going to let him near him again.
“Trust me, he’s not getting anywhere near Armin.” Mikasa shrugged and folded her arms, leaning back in her seat. “Not without his limbs, anyway.”
“I’m not sure that’ll actually stop him.”
Mikasa regarded me for a moment, angling her head to the side as she watched me. “What did he say about Levi?”
“What I expected,” I muttered, even though it wasn’t close to the truth. “That the kiss didn’t mean anything.”
“Right,” Mikasa rolled her eyes and tilted her head back. “Because he wasn’t expecting to kiss him. Honestly, why else would he be there?”
I paused on the words, still unwilling to let myself believe the full truth behind them. Even if I knew there was no lie hiding there. “He said he went there to convince Levi to fight for me.”
“He wouldn’t stand a chance.” Mikasa shrugged, glancing to me. “Levi hates him, so it’s not like he’ll listen to him anyway. Especially not if he hasn’t listened to us. And trust me, we’ve been trying for days.”
“Well, whatever he said made a difference,” I muttered, turning my eyes to the hall. There were people walking out of the room now. And somehow I knew they would be coming this way.
“What do you mean?”
“He actually convinced him. Levi told him that he’s going to fight for me.” The words were distant as I watched them walk down the hall. Whispers coming from an unfamiliar mouth. Words I couldn’t be sure I meant. “But it doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
I could feel it all slipping away.
And I wasn’t sure I would be able to stop it now.
“Because I don’t belong to him anymore.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
As it turns out, Primary User isn't yet another strange name of the Old Ones, and neither is Montana Recreations – although Aloy already had her doubts about that particular one.
When Elisabet calms down enough to speak again, saying
I'm not laughing at you
and
just caught me off guard is all
, the woman explains how the Old Ones had different users for certain technology, and each user represented a person. Primary User only meant to signify the person who used a Focus
primarily
.
It's very similar to how Sylens and Aloy distinguished Focus-wearing Carja as, well, Focus users. Aloy wouldn't even be able to blame Elisabet for laughing at her oversight because now that it's been explained, it's impossible to imagine the words being used in a different sense.
“Can't believe I didn't realize that,” she mutters half to herself as they enter the small room they paid for to stay the night at Morning's Watch. The cost for their stay is high, all things considered, but the road leading to Meridian and the Spire is long and comforts are spread far and wide in between.
The room even has a window, high along the outside wall.
“It's not that bad,” Elisabet says, setting the baggage she's carrying down by the foot of what will be her bed. “Trust me, even for people who were born surrounded by the technology, some of it could be very challenging.”
Pushing a hand into the pillow as she sits onto the other bed, Aloy tries to determine whether it'll be better to sleep with or without it. “Doesn't help that all your names are confusing too,” she says. “Ted, that's an okay name, even if it belonged to a Strider-herder. Or Aaron, or Tom, but Patrick? I can't even pronounce the second part half the time –”
“Brochard-Klein,” Elisabet says, having come to sit across her. “And Ted was short for Theodore.”
“That's what I mean,” Aloy says, throwing the pillow down the side of the bed. “Aluki, Ikrie, Tulemak – even Banuk names make more sense.”
“It's a shame I can't remember Picasso's full name right now. I don't suppose you've got it stored somewhere, do you, GAIA?”
For both of them, their Focus devices glow as GAIA joins their conversation. “Unfortunately, I do not,” the AI says. “However I am able to recall Pablo Picasso was a Spanish painter, sculptor, printmaker, ceramicist, stage designer, poet and playwright who lived during the 20th century as an influential artist.”
Many of the terms GAIA uses bring nothing to mind when Aloy tries to imagine them, but she knows painters, poets, and sculptors. “What did she do? Paint people's songs for them?”
“I'm afraid Pablo was a man,” Elisabet says.
Aloy throws herself back onto the bed with a groan. “Like I said! It’s confusing.”
“So what's a Strider-herder, then?” she hears Elisabet ask. “Sounds cute to me. How do you herd Striders?”
“You don't.” Aloy thinks back to every time Rost warned her against doing pointless things. No one is able to herd Striders with the exception of other machines, like Watchers, or someone with an override. “It means you're pretending to do something when you're clearly not, and it'll get you killed.”
When she looks over to Elisabet she finds the woman half nodding her head. “That's... awfully apt and specific. Let's uh... take a look at your Focus, shall we?”
Changing the name from Primary User to Aloy is surprisingly simple, even more so with GAIA's instantaneous help. She only has to take it off for a moment in which GAIA alters the name, and, as soon as she's wearing it again, looks through her data to find anything addressed to her is titled
TO: Aloy
. For such a small change, she can't help but feel pleased with it.
With the sun setting, the room grows darker until a Carja woman stops by to light the lamps hanging from the wall next to the door. They still have enough food to last a few days, and Elisabet insists on a smaller portion than Aloy, saying she doesn't need as much anyway.
“Where does your name come from, Aloy?” the woman asks while Aloy chews on a dried fig. “Are you named after a crafting material or...”
She shakes her head, remembering what Rost told her about the Naming Ritual. “Usually there's a crowd that gathers on the outlook of All-Mother mountain, but for me it was Rost and Teersa. Then, when the sun rises, your name is declared and... if it's a good name, they say the Goddess will speak it back.”
“Was yours?”
Even now, after so long, she can still faintly remember the proud look Rost would have every time he recounted the event.
The Goddess spoke it back
, he'd say.
Many times. It's a sign She's looking out for you, Aloy
.
“It had more than four echoes,” she says to Elisabet. “The Nora consider that a good sign.”
She was never sure what to make of it herself. After all, if the Goddess was looking out for her, why was she still an outcast without a mother? Then later, after finding out the truth about GAIA and All-Mother mountain, it felt even more pointless.
Swallowing back the fig, Aloy reaches for the bread next. “And yours?” she asks as she tears the piece in two, offering one to Elisabet.
The woman accepts the bread, but keeps it in her hands as she stares at the wall opposite her. “It's a... family name. There were more than a few women in my family called Elisabet, although most of them went by shortened versions of it, like Beth or Ellie.” Crumbling one of the edges of the bread, Elisabet's gaze drops to her hands, but Aloy can tell she isn't really seeing anything. “My mother preferred the full name. Sometimes she'd even call me by the original version of it, Elisheva, but... I never told anyone else about that.”
She mentally compares the two names,
Elisabet
and
Elisheva
. The way Elisabet said it sounded softer, kinder than the name she goes by, with a warmth to it that's hard to put into words.
“I won't use it then,” Aloy says.
In a trick of the light Elisabet's eyes appear almost damp when she looks at Aloy, nodding her thanks. “Anyway, it means
God's promise
or
oath of my God
, something people liked to remind me of, but I was never very religious.”
“And Sobeck?”
Her question seems to snap Elisabet out of the almost fragile look she was carrying. “Oh, that's a surname,” she says, and something on Aloy's face must've given away that she has
no idea what a surname is
. “It's a name that every member of a family carries alongside their own.”
“So your mother...”
Elisabet nods. “She was a Sobeck, too.”
It's different from the Oseram's bynames, but sounds similar to some of the Carja names Aloy's encountered, like Talanah and her family's house name. The thought strikes her that if she'd been born to a different tribe, her name would have been completely different as well, and she isn't sure how to feel about that.
Thankfully, before she can delve too deep into the idea of what her other names could have been, Elisabet continues talking.
“Sobeck was derived from the name of an Egyptian – an ancient – god, one with the body of a man and the face of a... a Snapmaw,” she says. “They say he was a god of fertility and healing, and featured in a lot of creation stories, but then he was also known as
he who loves robbery
and
pointed teeth
, so I'd uh... not take it all too seriously.”
Aloy remembers the very first conversation she ever had with a Carja Sun-Priest who claimed their sun-god had to be a man. She huffs. “Your name means
promise of a male Snapmaw god
. That better be one good promise then. Didn't the Old Ones have any female gods to name their children after?”
It dawns on her that maybe she shouldn't have practically insulted a name that was given to Elisabet by a woman she loved dearly, and she freezes in her movements, checking Elisabet's face from the corner of her eye. She catches the moment a small smile creeps onto the woman's face.
“My mother always said God was without gender, and I –” Elisabet pauses, listening to something only she can hear. “Go ahead, GAIA.”
The room lights up with the purple framework of her Focus, and GAIA says, “Forgive my intrusion. I received a signal from a Focus unit approximately 17.1 seconds ago, originating from a location in close range to the Utah Spire. It appears to be an attempt at establishing communications.”
“Patch them through, GAIA,” Elisabet says. “Let's see who we're dealing with.”
At first nothing happens, but then distorted lines of a holo image appear, shifting erratically in a way that makes it impossible to see the other person. “I don't think it's working,” a man's voice says, one that sounds familiar to Aloy.
“Maybe if you touch the round shape again,” a second, even more familiar voice says before the image clears and Aloy finds herself looking at the holo-forms of Erend and Avad, both wearing a Focus.
“It's Aloy!” Erend cries in surprise before apparently remembering he's standing next to the Sun-King and shuffling on his feet, tucking his arms away behind his back. “And another woman. As you can see, obviously,” he adds.
“Can they hear us?” Avad asks, looking up at Erend as he's currently sitting down on something – Aloy's best guess is one of the cushioned couches on the terrace. Without the royal crown on his head, Avad looks slightly younger than usual.
“Yes, we can,” Aloy says, and waits for both of the men to turn their heads to face her.
“Aloy!” Avad says in greeting. “These light scroll devices are truly magnificent! I do hope we are not disturbing you and your companion.”
Next to her she notices Elisabet placing the piece of bread Aloy gave her back onto the cloth with food between them, brushing away some of the crumbs. When she looks over to the woman, she receives a dismissive hand gesture and a nod towards the holo-image floating before them.
“You found another Focus,” Aloy says to the men, and it's Erend who nods in agreement.
“Never thought I'd be wearing one of these,” the Oseram says. “If I had known... maybe I would've tried to find one sooner.”
For a moment she imagines making a quip about the Focus to see if he doesn't feel it looks strange on his own face, but that train of thought leads back to Olin and the Proving, so she doesn't. She waits for one of them to speak again, and this time it's Avad.
“As indebted as the Sundom is to you, Meridian asks –
I
ask – that you might return in order to assist us,” the Sun-King says with a grave expression. There's a slight pause wherein the king looks to Erend, who nods.
Before Avad speaks again, Aloy can already feel what his words will be – there's only one reason why they would come to her, one field of expertise either man would not be sure of how to approach.
“We fear the Demon may be planning another attack.”
---
It'll take them a week to reach Meridian, a period of time Avad has agreed to, saying she'll be greeted at the gates and escorted to the palace immediately upon arrival.
They might make it there sooner. Traveling with Elisabet – at first it seemed she'd have to adapt, that the woman required more rest and comfort than Aloy ever gave herself, but the very next time they come across an inn and Aloy sets out to count her shards, Elisabet stops her.
That night they sleep on the ground, under the open sky, looking up at the many stars above. Elisabet tells her about them, how the sun is a star as well.
Not too long ago, Aloy would have preferred the quiet rush of nature to accompany her during her travels over any other sound, but now she finds herself drawn to Elisabet's voice whenever she speaks. Most hours still pass without either of them saying a word, but more and more often she's the one to start a conversation, to ask Elisabet about the Old Ones or the world around them.
The Way of Broken Stones is safe and dull in the most pleasant of ways compared to other roads, and they only change course slightly once they reach the edge of the Thunderjaw's territory – the one that guards where the road splits in two, one path to Meridian, one to Cut-Cliffs. Some Carja soldiers say the machine has been restless of late.
So they take the smaller path down, the one that leads into a canyon where bandits gather from time to time still. It sets her on edge, but given the choice she'd rather plant a few arrows into the bodies of bandits than run from a Thunderjaw's tail.
When night falls and they haven't come across a place Aloy deems safe enough to rest for a few hours, Elisabet gives her the option to join her on Elisabet's Strider and close her eyes a moment.
There are a thousand reasons on her mind that warn her, that she must stay awake, but when Aloy brings up the danger of bandits, Elisabet points to her Focus and GAIA joins in, saying they will both keep an eye out. The floating, tired feeling at the back of her neck pushes against the rest of her body until she caves.
It isn't the same kind of rest sleep brings, but by leaning her head on Elisabet's back and closing her eyes, Aloy finds herself drifting off for short moments at a time, the landscape changing every time she opens her eyes again.
In the span of one of these moments, the sun starts rising and blue light greets Aloy, causing her to blink a few times as her vision adjusts to daybreak. Her arms are still wrapped loosely around Elisabet's waist, and with her ear pressed against the woman's back she can hear the faint hum of a melody resonating within her chest.
Her own Strider is walking besides them and it raises its head, glowing eyes taking her in before going back to the task at hand. The pace they're going is slow, a sign Elisabet's Strider is starting to struggle under the combined weight.
She should switch back to her own mount.
Instead, Aloy listens to the hummed melody inside Elisabet's chest, feigning sleep a little longer.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
August 20, 2009
"Hey viewers, Keiko here. *proceeds to blush for a moment before composing self again to continue* Anyway, as I was about to tell all of you. You might be wondering, exactly why, the first part was cut short the way that it was, correct? Well, most of you might not be wondering that exactly, but just hear me out for a second. *proceeds to say the first part while showing a face of slight discomfort and a slight blush on face before composing self again to continue to address the viewers* Anyway, as I was saying, the reason why the chapter was cut short, is that I wanted to help build up the suspense. You know, for this chapter. I mean after all viewers, like Shinko Hanasaki had done many times before in her fanfic of Going In Completely Blind. Think of this, as a sort of incentive, you know, to persuade you all to want to read on. *proceeds to smile with eyes closed and head slightly tilted in a cute like manner before once again continuing to address the viewers* Anyway, why don't I just put a temporary kibosh on fourth wall breaking. At least, for the moment. And what do you all say, that we finally get on with the current chapter, hmmm? *says the last word while once again smiling with eyes closed and head slightly tilted to one side in a cute manner*"
Okay, so I am not going to sugar coat what was currently taking place in this current moment. Kuroko had just teleported away, leaving me quite unhappy with her having intervened in Misaka's business and current situation with Touma. And Misaka? Well, she was sort of not in a great way either. Especially, since another certain someone, had now decided to make her presence known to the three of us.
And what I mean by that, is that one of the remaining Sisters, from the Level 6 Shift Project, proceeded to show up out of nowhere, from one of the nearby staircases, that lead down to our location in the park. And for those who are going to ask, no, I don't know her precise number out of the remainder of the 20,000 Sisters, that still haven't been killed outright by Accelerator. But, if I had to make an educated guess, I would say that her number is somewhere between #10029 and #10031. Which means, that not only, were the experiments continuing forward as if nothing had even happened. But apparently, this made Misaka less then pleased, to hear that all that she had done up to this point, in an attempt to permanently stop the experiments, had all been for nothing. As another 61 Sisters, had been killed, since me and Misaka had attempted to confront Accelerator, in the railway yard, not that long ago.
In fact, given the current situation, and what was still to come with regards to future events. Not only would me, Misaka, and our friends be in grave danger, but, so would those that we had crossed paths with by chance, back on August 9th.
"And for those who are wondering...Sorry, Keiko here again viewers. Anyway, as I was about to say, for those who still don't know, exactly why that month and day, is so important. Well then, I highly suggest then, that you go and read the other two fanfics, that are connected to this one. You know, Going In Completely Blind, and Going In Almost Completely Blind? Surely you haven't been only reading this fanfic have you? Well, because if you have, then that is probably why you don't have the full picture, as to what is truly going on...So if I were you, and had done that?...I would probably be feeling pretty embarrassed right now with myself...*proceeds to temporarily look away with an all too familiar blush on face and a hand over mouth to show slight embarrassment for the viewers who have in fact only been reading this fanfic while not bother to read the other two before facing forward again with the blush now gone from face to continue to address the viewers*...Anyway, back to the current chapter. *says that while once again smiling with eyes closed and head tilted slightly to one side in a cute manner*"
Anyway, as Misaka looked on in complete shock and horror, once the Sister with the #10030, had finished explaining that the Level 6 Shift experiments were still carrying on as scheduled. This, not surprisingly, caused Misaka, to let out a yell, as she then told the Sister, to stop talking. And what I mean by that exactly, is that she sort of lost herself emotionally for a second, as she said this to #10030. And to be honest, I was also not happy, to be seeing Misaka in this state. In fact, I was actually pretty not pleased. And though I did not know it at the time, my emotions, like that of another light blue haired individual, would wind up playing a very huge role, in the future events, that were still to come.
But for now, I had to try and deal with the current situation, regarding a somewhat distraught Misaka, and the horrific discovery, regarding the Level 6 Shift experiments. And so, with that in mind, I silently approached Misaka. And, once she had taken notice of me, and had then turned her attention to me, I instantly then put her in tight embrace, as she then proceeded to do the same. "Look Misaka, I know how you must feel in this situation, believe me I do. And I will see to it, that whoever is running these senseless and malicious experiments, will wind up paying for the Sisters that they've already killed. Make no mistake Misaka, they will wind up answering for this. And you don't need to worry about going into this fight alone, you have me with you. Because after all Misaka, we need to look after each other, through the good times, as well as the bad," I said to her, as I held her in the embrace.
And once we had broken the embrace, once I knew that Misaka was feeling better, she then decided to speak up. "Thanks for that Keiko, that means a lot," Misaka responded, now grateful for what I had just done. "You are quite welcome Misaka," I said, as I smiled at her.
"Now viewers, let me make one thing completely clear, she is my sister, nothing more. So, don't be making any hasty conclusions. I mean after all, Shinko explicitly suggested..." "Yea Keiko, this is not the right time to be doing that. I think that the viewers more or less get it *Misaka proceeds to look at Keiko with a wary expression to indicate that this is not the right time to be talking about Shinko Hanasaki*" "Oh...right...my apologies Misaka...*proceeds to respond while giving an expression to indicate that Misaka is right with suggesting that with a bead of sweat present on one side of her face*...Anyway, we both hope that we will see you all in the next chapter...*proceeds to say that while once again smiling with eyes closed and head tilted slightly to one side in a cute manner*"
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
There was a time for mourning, and oftentimes that period in which one can grieve for the lost or deceased is never in a convenient setting; never in a place you would wish to mourn, never surrounded by the people that you know can help you recover, never enclosed in the arms of the one you wish could just
be there
.
I couldn’t mourn. Not now, probably not any time soon, and by the time I could, I’d be too used to the emptiness to want to fill it – too used to the scar that I’d never want if to fade. In fact, if there ever was an emptiness, I couldn’t feel it; my bugs were useful like that, shunt it all off to them and watch them freak out for a bit in amusement. When the emotional eventually came back I’d just shunt them off again. I couldn’t afford to feel right now.
‘How ironic’
I mused. The irony, of course, came from the lack of rain – a quick glance upwards proved that to be a foregone conclusion for the rest of the day. Clear skies, with not a hint of grey cloud anywhere. And wasn’t that upsetting? Well, it probably should have been, but oh well.
There was a small hand gently touching my forearm, but I ignored it – Panacea had no right to even
think
about comforting me right now. I didn’t need it; my bugs could take the emotions and I could ignore the sheer
agony
that having such a hole in your chest left.
“Skitter…” That wasn’t Panacea this time, that was Brandish; New Wave’s lawyer-hero that felt it necessary to come along and probably exacerbate the situation – whatever ‘situation’ this could be.
How do you call this anything less than an event worthy of a second trigger? How do I come back from this? It doesn’t matter if my bugs can take it, anymore, not with the memories I’d be stuck with. Nightmares. Maybe a hallucination or two. Hearing things and jumping at shadows would be what I’d be reduced to.
But I couldn’t grieve, couldn’t hate myself, could embrace the demons and let them torment me. Not yet, not until I’ve dealt with this.
The Glock Lisa gave me feels
so heavy
on my hip now.
There, in front of me, lay Grue – Brian. It wasn’t pleasant to think a teammate of yours was dead, and if I hadn’t have seen his body I would have fallen into vehement denial.
“he’s not dead, Lisa”
I’d say, and her power would tell her that yes, yes, he really was, but she’d be too kind for that and say instead that she would let me ‘think it through’.
His body was mangled, barely recognisable beyond burns and char, and the only way I could tell
that it was definitely Brian I’d be burying later
was his mask; cracked, charred, but still his. One of his hands was flaked and blackened – soot or charred skin was the question of the day – and the other was nowhere to be seen, but disintegration couldn’t be ruled out. The hand that was visible though was twitching still – I knew him to be dead, but nerves tended to be finicky like that.
I don’t even remember when I started walking. The little hand on my forearm slipped to my own hand, and for a second there was resistance. Of course, I could have been softer about it, but the perceived notion that someone would stop me from doing something as rudimentary as tending to Grue’s body was
abhorrent
to me. I’d never felt poetic before, but when I practically wrenched my hand from Panacea’s and turned to stare at her with the mask of Skitter on my face I’m quite sure she saw something that shocked her enough to drop it.
Without the impediment of Panacea, with Glory Girl off fighting Lung with Armsmaster and Brandish just standing there with this grim look on her face I felt it vital that I start dealing with my friend’s body.
I didn’t even realise I was already kneeling by his body until my hand was gently lifting the cracked and charred mask from Brian’s face to reveal nothing but wide eyes and a half-open, red, black and grey mess that could have been his mouth. Surprisingly his neck was the cleanest thing about him, but maybe that wasn’t too surprising – despite Lung being what could only be described as ‘muscle-bound muscle with occasional fire and more muscle’ the Dragon of Kyushu
knew what he was doing
. When he went for the kill you would be dead if you couldn’t counter it; it was just bad luck that Grue’s ‘smoke and mirror’ fighting style was the worst thing to use when against someone that held off Leviathan.
I lifted my head and looked around the area that could most definitely be described as ‘apocalyptic’. Fires raged in small little bundles surrounding what used to be houses, char covered the ground where fires weren’t and blood filling in the rest. Lumps of mass that I could only assume were people –
were
being the operative word, seeing as most of those people were little more than congealed masses of reddish pulp with the occasional organ thrown in. looking to Grue’s left I could se, leaning up against a wall, was Regent – he was dead too. After all, how do you live through the entire right side of your body being nothing but soot, charred flesh and bones poking through whatever skin was left over? You don’t, by the way.
But something was different about Regent’s death; one of his hands were clenched around a pipe that looked like it was shoved through-and-through, acting as a pin to the side he was leaning against.
I got up and walked right past him – he was dead, sure, but we weren’t friends; Regent was…well, he was
Regent
. Apathetic to everything – through no fault of his own of course, but it made it difficult to like him – and snarky about things he really should have kept quiet about.
He wasn’t going to be missed beyond a few fond memories involving
“shut up, Alec”
being thrown around. Mostly by Lisa and me, but Rachel was good for it a couple of times and Grue liked to punch down on his head instead.
He’d be missed
slightly
then.
Rachel wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and it took a while of walking before I came across her dogs’ bodies; again, like Grue, they were barely recognisable. Of course, they were like that anyway when she used her power on them, but they at least resembled dogs even when grown; these
things
in front of me were just lumps of charred meat with a paw or a snout floating about.
I averted my eyes to see Rachel a little bit further away than I thought she’d be. Had she tried to run? Had she attempted to flee once her dogs were down? Or had she seen Grue kick the bucket and decided to escape, only to get stopped by something. Her body was practically unmarred, almost flawless – flawless in that I knew it was her, anyway. Flawless compared to the states of the other Undersiders’ bodies. She was lay face up, back against the ground and a hole in the forehead of her mask, congealed and dried blood covering the surface of her cheap dog mask. Shot? I found it odd, but the ABB were known for the usage of guns in large scale fights – I would definitely call a battle with Lung involved a ‘large scale fight’.
I heard a choked gasp to my left, and I practically shot my head in that direction; Glock was in hand before I even knew what I was looking at, but I can tell you now that what I saw was something that made me almost drop it.
Lisa.
Tattletale.
Lisa was alive
.
I’m pretty sure I broke the sound barrier in my effort to get to her; either that, or Glory Girl was done with Lung and making her way back over here – the popping of my ears could have been anything, really. I attributed it to how fast I launched myself at Lisa.
My bugs were taking the emotions, of course, but I still knew how I would have felt – relieved, worried, exasperated, tired…scared. For Lisa, mostly, but scared all the same.
I heard a muffled chuckle against my chest, and then a cough – a wet thing that splattered blood against my front, but I couldn’t care less right now. I felt her arms snake around my neck, pulling me down so she could rest her chin in that little area between your neck and your shoulder, and without thinking I lowered mine to the crown of her head.
I was worried. The bugs didn’t take that emotion, I didn’t shunt it off to them like I did for everything else. I felt it this time, and it brought tears to my eyes just thinking about it.
Grue was dead.
Regent was dead.
Rachel was dead.
But Lisa was
alive
. And that’s all I needed, really. It was all I desired out of this…
this
. Whatever this was, anyway.
“You can let go now, Ta – Skitter.”
“I can.” I agreed. I could let her go whenever I wanted, but this little incident spurred my brain into action. I saw perspective now, knew what I was doing wrong in my life and what I needed to do right if I wanted to get things done properly. I wanted to be a hero, I wanted to save people; but the adage of ‘who saves the saviours?’ came to mind, and I realised I can’t save anyone if I haven’t saved myself yet. I haven’t given myself peace of mind, happiness, I haven’t let myself wind down or take some time off. Worked harder than I thought anyone ever should for a dream that’s looking more impossible with each day that passes.
But.
“I’m fine. Just some bruises and some burns.”
“Mmhmm.”
But Lisa was alive
.
Lisa was a constant. A friend I didn’t know I needed until she became one. A friend I craved the attention of, a friend I couldn’t bare to see upset, or angry, or
dead
.
“Are you okay?” she wasn’t asking to be let go anymore, her power probably supplied her the knowledge that I was thinking about something. I was, and what’s worse is her power could see through my outfit; or is that a bad thing, really?
The truth never hurt anyone anymore than a lie could, and if I didn’t get this out there now, I doubted the courage would come to me again. Courage and fear are a potent mix, after all, and both can spur the cowardly on to do something brave.
I needed to be brave.
“I am now that you’re okay.”
I shuffled the embarrassment off to the nearest swarm.
I wasn’t
that
brave.
There was a chuckle as a palm, small and barely calloused, rested itself beneath the chin of my mask. I wanted it to be against bare skin, but the heroes were over there. She seemed to have a smirk back on her blood-stained face, smeared in dust, soot and blood. It didn’t stop her from looking any less than beautiful.
“Got something to admit, Tay?” she was…I don’t know the word for it. But Lisa was being quieter than usual. She knew, of course she would, her power would let her know everything, but my courage-fear-mix hadn’t faded yet and I was ready for war if it meant I could say this.
“You know I do.” I was going for the knowing look, but I stopped almost before it began; despite her power seeing through my suit to read my body language, she couldn’t read my facial expressions. Stupid heroes watching something they had no right to.
Her smile turned from her usual wolfish, impish, other kinds of ish smirk, to a smaller, friendlier, less punchable grin. Then it turned into a frown for a second, and she seemed to meet Panacea’s eyes with her own. I didn’t bother to worry about that; Panacea was herding the other heroes away with a blush and a glance back. Brandish caught on really quick – and despite us being villains I guess even she had a soft spot for the tragedy that happened here.
Lisa’s hands went up to my mask – I performed some scouting with my bugs to make sure no one was watching – and I helped her undo the clasps holding it to my face.
I was plain. I knew I wasn’t winning any beauty competitions any time…ever…but I also knew my face was clean. Spotless, damp from dried tears maybe but otherwise pristine.
Lisa sorted that out really quick with a kiss to the lips that lasted way longer than any kiss friends should give to each other.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
He dove toward the window of his room. He looked at his own naked body from the waist up. Dany looked like she was about to cry as the flames burned more and more intensely. The feeling was strange but strangely familiar. The body wasn't his, but he understood it perfectly.
With the body of his eagle, he descended and dug his claws into his human chest, right above the sacrifice rune. As if it were his hand, he closed his claws. The three front claws closed together, forming three lines that converged at the same point. He had to move away to dodge the blow his body unleashed.
He looked proudly at the three red lines. But one was missing. The heat in the room became unbearable. He hoped the eagle would get scared and fight back. But it lunged again. He had never felt so bad about having such a strong body. He barely managed to dodge it. He looked at Dany. The girl had brought her hand close to his chest, her index finger touching the nail where the three wounds left by the eagle's claws met. His body did not react to her touch; he just stared at the fire. But he can see his hands trembling.
Whatever was taking his body didn't want to hurt her.
Daenerys dug her fingernail in and, with a single scratch, made the last line. A primal rune ᛉ was engraved on his chest in blood. The wounded blood glowed a dark red, so similar to the sap of the arcians that he could have mistaken it for it.
The eagle flew out the window, and seconds later, it watched the flames consume the entire room. But he no longer shared its eyes. The last thing he remembers seeing through the eagle's eyes was a red star splitting the sky.
He returned to his body with a jolt. He felt heavier, and his chest was on fire. With a quick movement, he kicked the book of runes, which had fallen to the floor during the possession. The book slid to the door leading to the makeshift courtyard.
The walls were brick; they wouldn't burn, but he didn't trust them not to melt. He looked at his wife, the flames dancing on her naked skin, avoiding burning her.
'Unburned.' He thought.
She would be fine. He took the jar of sap and, smearing it on his fingers, began to inscribe the wall and door with the runes Tyr and Elhaz. He wanted to protect his Solar room and everything found within it.
He had seen magic before. But now he felt it. He felt the wall harden.
Finally, the fire melted the clay jar in his hand. The red liquid dripped onto the floor.
He felt Daenerys' embrace. Inside the fire, it was somehow cold. The princess's hair burned. She moved a few inches away from him.
It was a crazy sight if anyone could see them. Both of them were in the flames, the flames just touching their skin without causing them harm and dancing around them.
He had been burned before. Once, as a child, he touched a red-hot piece of coal. He cried in pain, but he healed without any scars.
This?
What was this?
Magic.
His wife looked beautiful. Her skin contrasted with the fire in a way that made her look like a fire goddess; her purple eyes glowed unnaturally, her pink lips were moist, unaltered by the flames.
Had she always been this beautiful? Was it the fire around her that made her so desirable? Their clothes had been consumed, and only their naked bodies were visible.
The furniture in the room was burning, and toxic smoke began to billow from it. But they were unaffected. It wasn't logical, but when had magic ever been logical?
It was impulse or desire, a mixture of both. He should have taken his wife and left the fire, but no, there was something he had to do there.
They approached each other, dazed by the reflection of the other.
It began with a kiss and ended with them joined together, just as they had been on their first night, and many others that followed. They were husband and wife: a man and a woman.
They were two dragons mating.
With no bed or furniture, he ended up taking her on the wooden floor. Even when the wood charred, they felt no pain, only the ash breaking under their weight.
Ros, Sansa, none of them had ever made him feel so good. Even when he had both of them at the same time, it was nothing compared to this. It wasn't just physical pleasure; it was something more spiritual. He could feel the magic around them vibrate with joy every time their climax were in sync. Their passion fueled the flames.
He split his seed inside her three times.
After the third time, the flames vibrated like never before; the wood on the floor was gone, and the walls looked as if they had been victims of dragon fire.
In a way, they had been.
Then, as she curled up on his chest and he wrapped his arms around her, they heard them. Soft crackling sounds. Then moans, like an animal fighting.
They both felt claws climbing up their bodies, but neither moved. Their bodies remained entwined, their souls repeating the action. The peace among the flames was something they had never experienced before. They had never felt so at home as they did at that moment.
How much time had passed? Minutes, hours, days? There was no time when they made love, only him, her, and the magic.
He looked at a crowd of men near where the door should have been; the flames had melted the brick. They were brave men, but not stupid. The fire died down, and the men were finally able to approach. Jaeherys was forced to pull out of her and noticed that there was no trace of his seed between the princess's legs.
'Three dragons,' he thought. 'One life for a life... three.'
The fire took his seed three times.
With that last thought, he used his body to cover his wife's modesty. Even if the men were loyal, the princess's body was not for their eyes to feast on. He looked to his right. The wall and the door to his quarters were intact, only darkened by the smoke.
Torrhen handed him a cloak, which he used to cover her and the dragons.
'Dragons,' just a few hours ago, they were talking about trade, and now they had brought dragons out of the stone. He looked at his wife, and when the flames subsided, her body was covered in ash.
He heard the murmurs of the men as the dragons climbed out from under the cloak. The three eggs had given birth to three majestic dragons.
The first was jet black. When the sun touched its scales, they shone a dark purple, like obsidian. It had two horns where the purple color was most evident. Its eyes were like molten silver.
The second was an auburn color. Two small protuberances adorned its head. He watched as the color changed on its horns, revealing a steel gray. Its eyes were green like emeralds.
The third was silver. Jaehaerys remembered Daenerys' hair just by looking at it. Its horns darkened slightly; they weren't two, he counted eight, even if they weren't that larger than the other two dragons had. Jaehaerys thought they assembled a crown. Its eyes were black with red veins like two burning coals.
They were just as they were described in the books.
Elongated and with two hind legs. Its wings were membranous, similar to those of bats. Its necks were elongated. Despite having the same characteristics, they were not identical.
The black one was the widest and had the thickest wings of the three, and was shorter than the red one. It also seemed temperamental, like an angry old man who was annoyed by the sun beating down on his body.
It blew smoke from his jaws as he looked at the crowd around him, as if they were unworthy of his presence.
The red one was the thinnest and longest, although its small size made it unremarkable. Its wings were also the smallest of the three. It seemed frightened, and as soon as it saw the people, it returned to Dany's cloak.
The silver one had the largest wings. Its body was not as vast as the red one's, nor as long as the black one's. It looked Jaehaerys straight in the eye, without a hint of fear. The prince even felt it smile at him. The dragon looked at the men and moved from Dany's body to Jaehaerys's so it could see them. It seemed curious about these beings.
"My prince," said the men around him. The northerners and southerners knelt before him.
"Hail Jaehaerys Targaryen," said Torrhen.
"Hail Daenerys Targaryen," said Brandon.
"The ones who bring the Dragons back," said a southerner with unbridled devotion.
He touched his chest. The Elhaz-shaped scar was now a few thick red lines. It hadn't healed like a normal scar; no, magic pulsed through it, close to his heart. Thinking about the god who had tried to kill him filled him with hatred.
'The dragons are back. But I'm still alive, and that must piss you off, R'hllor,' he thought with satisfaction. He could feel something new in his body. Maybe the fire resistance was permanent for him.
Then he thought sarcastically, 'I wanted to industrialize this world, and now I have to fight a god.'
Jaehaerys didn't think he could simply use his staff to kill a god in a fight.
He will kill him, as many gods have died before in his last life.
Made the people lose faith in them.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Tyrell blew smoke as he turned on his heel. Sebastian watched the obscuring cloud dissipate and felt cornered in such a large space.
His boss looked ever so relaxed.
“You’ve never considered cosmetic surgery?” he asked.
“No.” Feeling foolish enough for spending so much on creams, supplements, and the past’s other snake oils, invasive procedures like collagen injections were shunned no matter how pretty the people on the posters were.
Something in his answer gladdened. Tyrell smiled like a pleased cat.
“Good. With your condition, I would not expect any permanent results.”
A muscle beside Sebastian’s larynx kept going up in down.
Shaky on the inside, Sebastian stood very still.
Laying chemical indulgences to rest, Tyrell approached again.
Biting a corner of his lip, Sebastian tried to calm himself. His friend’s grip had hurt, but he tasted no blood; He’d been hurt for worse in his life.
Tyrell stood before him, close but retaining breathing room. He raised his right arm up to his chest with his elbow pointed outward. He looked to be summoning Eden. “Grab my arm.”
Brows raised, Sebastian was baffled; No one had invited him-outright commanded him-to touch them before. Not even when he’d paid for it.
Blankness overtaking the anxiety, Sebastian did feel lighter as he reached out.
Sebastian’s semi-curled hands hung in the air, the bare arms attached reminded him of all that could be seen. He must look rouged with the incomplete fever tickling again. Not quite a start, his shoulders raised when Tyrell spoke.
“Pretend your pulling up your blanket.” There was a wispy, teasing quality in his voice; Sebastian had never seen him so playful. Must trepidation lead him along again?
Correcting his stance, Sebastian understood but hesitated before laying hands on the inwardly-placed limb. Through expensive fabric Sebastian could feel bone, and even the shallow trench the absence of flesh made beneath his palms.
“Now push against me.”
Sebastian looked up, surpise taking off the years. “Really?”
“Really.“ Tyrell said.
A wild thought came to mind ; If push came to shove, Sebastian doubted he could physically best Tyrell. Even younger, he suffered from infirmities that his boss appeared spared of. Even older and lean, Tyrell still possessed the same steady strength Sebastian felt with their first handshake
Deep at work, Sebastian had been almost fine with Tyrell breathing down his neck downstairs. Now there were so many thing he did not wish to think of. Trying not to harm Tyrell or himself, Sebastian did as he was asked, bending his knees and shifting one foot forward as he pushed. Tyrell’s fist pressed into his chest, but the rest of him remained steady.
“Did that hurt?” A quiet amusement was conveyed, Tyrell’s eyes half-lidded.
Sebastian met them contritely. “Kinda.”
Straightening as he pulled away, Sebastian felt the ache reverberating down his wrists. They smarted more than he said, but it would stop soon. His tooth and gums were almost there. He was calming down again. Hoping to remain that way, Sebastian’s expression mirrored Tyrell’s for a moment.
Gently- surreptitiously- Tyrell reached for Sebastian’s left hand. The hold moving up his wrist as Tyrell’s other hand joined in borrowing, Sebastian stared, the gray sensation inside no longer feeling like a choice.
As if manually measuring for rings, Tyrell was feeling the the joints in his hand, the kneading motions along his knuckles and all his fingers leaving tingling echoes behind. Poised like a fortune-teller, Tyrell looked up again, bringing a small pang as Sebastian’s little finger was bent outward.
“There’s no swelling. Do you experience pain in your hands throughout the day?”
At home Sebastian had designed machines for opening. But at work with no aids, his internal monologue became a chorus of
oww oww oww ow.
“Yes.”
“Do you also experience stiffness and pins and needles sensation?”
Not liking the direction they were going, Sebastian nodded, his small smile fading.
His grandmother had been arthritic. Gramma had been his only source of love. Her passing when he was 8 had been one of the worst days of his life.
She didn’t believe the doctor from Memphis. Rather than entertain the notion that there was anything wrong with him, she just said he was in a hurry to grow up, lots of boys were. Like an early growth-spurt, everything would even out eventually.
With the Methuselah syndrome progressing as it was, sometimes Sebastian wondered what would happen if the only one who ever loved him could see him now. If she could even recognize him, would she be horrified? Would she be like her daughter-who gave him his hair and most of his face before turning away-and be unable to look at him?
Thoughts interrupted for the better, Sebastian listened.
“Hmm. We’ll keep an eye on it. For now, there are no concrete signs of rheumatism. Your ESR was only slightly elevated. In spite of what the doctors surmised, your skeletal structure appears completely unaffected. The X-rays confirm as much.”
With all the aches and pains he dealt with daily, Sebastian found little comfort in having young bones; Soft tissue damage could be just as devastating.
Tyrell took five steps back. “I want to check your range of motion.”
Tyrell’s left arm was raised below the opposing shoulder.
“Raise your arm up,” Tyrell demonstrated, “then rotate it down.” The motion was like a slow wave or a recreation of a setting sun.
Knowing there would be aches and crackling, Sebastian imitated. The left arm was stilted, the movement between 12 to 9 o’clock stopping with a crack. Pain running down his scapula, Sebastian had to fight stiff tendons to get his arm down again.
Tyrell’s eyes may have widened a tick. “Do I see weakness in your left shoulder?”
Sebastian may as well be a good book with how the man took him in.
The left side of his back feeling twisted, he averted his eyes.
“I sprained it when I was a kid.”
Even if cruel memory insisted, there was no need to reminisce of how his father had broken it before the beating even started.
Sebastian became very aware of the clicks Tyrell’s dress shoes made against the wood floor. Finger to his lips, his employer had thought up a new task. “Can you touch your toes?”
Sebastian did not remember ever trying. But from retrieving tools dropped to the floor, he knew what to expect. Grimacing as he braced himself, Sebastian laid his hands on his thighs, muscles in his lower back tightening as he started to lean forward. Knees crying out as if bending backwards, he remembered a joke his devout grandmother had.
I’ve given up religion. When I get down to pray, I can’t get back up.
Shin-strings pulled too tight, Sebastian was growing dizzy again as his arms hung limply towards the floor. Focusing on the pain, Sebastian hadn’t heard the tapping on the wood. Contemplating the discomfiture of admitting defeat, Sebastian awoke to the outside word with a coolness to the base of his spine.
Tapping up his spine within a handful of seconds, Tyrell's hand wrapped over Sebastian’s shoulder as the other one grabbed his hip.
Tyrell was standing directly behind him.
Grabbing his knees, the younger man tried to stand up before that one-of-a-kind voice came down.
“Stay.”
Sebastian paused, the man who demanded these little humiliations keeping him from toppling over. Falling the other way, Tyrell pulled him up once his observation was done. Blinking rounded eyes, Sebastian tried to catch his bearings when he felt a longer touch between his shoulders. Fingertip pressing beside vertebrae, Tyrell’s touch ran down his back. The hand on his shoulder remained, steadying when reassurances fell flat. Sebastian felt rocked by the increasing rise and fall of his chest.
His nape was warmed by Tyrell’s breath.
“No scholiosis or bowing.”
There were steps again, perhaps an end. But then two fingers pressed between his shoulder blades. Shoulders back as his chest was pushed out, Sebastian straightened, his sight flitting to rows of books as if uncomprehending. He could hear the widening of the old man’s smile.
“According to your last appointment, your spine has not compressed yet. You would look taller if you didn’t slouch so much.”
Osteogenesis imperfecta, when one’s bones broke like glass. His bones felt like glass, the hammering of his heart threatening to strew pieces of his ribs across the pretty damask floor. The steps continued once the guiding hands fell away, but Sebastian-brows furrowed and teeth nearly chattering, was trying to think.
Graduating beyond handshakes or pats on the shoulder, Tyrell really thought nothing of touching him; Maybe after all these years it was only natural. If they really were friends, shouldn’t he feel calmer about it, and even reciprocate?
As much as he missed human contact on some days, Sebastian really didn’t know.
Tyrell treating him as less of a person and more of a collection of body parts-a specimen to be tweazed under glass-was not only uncomfortable but hurtful.
But what if Tyrell was doing him a favor? Would a stranger-another passing doctor, another indistinct, disconsolate face-touching him everywhere be all the worse?
Tyrell sauntered around him, his fingers tented while his unreachable train of thought carried on uninterupted.
“Does everything of yours crackle?”
Even colder and cracked at the endges, Sebastian willed the blankness back as he looked over. Tyrell wore a smile that said,
yes, it is audible.
“Mostly.” Sebastian’s voice was small. As if it were changing all over again, he felt it might break with another word.
“Perhaps there is a derth of synovial fluid.”
Concern unpretended, Tyrell looked like the cat who got the cream. Or the extinct little hunter watching the mouse twitch and bleed between it’s paws. His confidence was admirable, even if the promise in it hung around Sebastian like air in a lightning storm.
“There’s no visual sign of hip dysplasia, but I would like to check.”
Tyrell grasping his hip-bone hadn’t been enough.
Stepping back, Tyrell tapped the table. “Climb up, would you?”
No. No, no, no-
Gingerly,-his head hung low, the hangdog underling used a chair.
The motion lasted only a handful of seconds, but playing back who was just eye level with what brought heated smatterings throughout Sebastian’s face again.
The thick wood didn’t even creak when he sat down, his shins hanging off the edge like so many childhood checkups. It was so rare to find real wooden furniture nowadays. Even through his shorts, the antique surface was cool against his skin.
Smile fading, the doctor was slipping into his inceptive role, growing distant as he came closer. “Lie down.”
Maybe he was shaking again, but Sebastian didn’t feel much. Like resigning himself to sleep with nightmares awaiting, he closed his eyes and and laid back.
The wood was hard against bare skin. So much of his assayed body objected. Maybe it was good to feel the pain; It kept him from floating away entirely. Feeling empty after talking himself down, a peculiar mantra whispered though mental static.
I love you I love you I want to love you
The stone-flanked fire behind him, Tyrell’s face was was thrown into shadow. Casting one over Sebastian as he stood between bent knees, Tyrell moved his hands over a splindly leg. Gently fanned above and below his right patella, the young man found Tyrell’s hands were not so cold anymore.
Trying to study the amber gradients of the ceiling, Sebastian’s desperate peace was interrupted by strong fingers affixing. Splaying limbs apart with his leaning, Tyrell manipulated one until Sebastian’s knee nearly touched his chest.
The other knee jerked as Sebastian started. Insides lurching, a popping sound heralded the explosion of a grand pain in his hip. The other leg sympathized, a pulling pain ran down from knee to groin.
Practically pinned with nothing to hold onto, Sebastian-neck straining as he tried to lift his head, short nails skating on laquer- looked to the maintaner of his agony helplessley.
Sebastian’s numb ankle against his ribs, Tyrell-his eyes could be closed but darkness shaded- seemed to be counting as he straddled. Sebastian could feel Eldon’s pelvis-thin body asserting more than a great mind-pressing into him through thin, retreating fabric.
Thin fingers rubbed the bottom of his thigh. Those like Eden used to swoop so soundlessly in the night. Looking truly owlish with his head tilted. Tyrell’s voice sounded thinner; It was practically a sigh.
“You’re quite remarkable, Sebastian.”
Thoroughly disarmed, Sebastian swallowed, feeling his palms growing slick as he breathed in. “Thank you.”
So are you.
Sebastian could see Tyrell breathing-feel it too- his chest rising and falling as if he were pulled taut too.
Locked in place in more ways than one, transfixion could only stifle so much.
Pain spreading up Sebastian’s back, a modest reprieve came with a new whim.
The pressure relieved as Tyrell leaned back- but he did not let go.
As if locked into place, straightening his leg again hurt. Tyrell’s right hand ran up his shin as he pulled. The sight widened Sebastian’s eyes as much as the feeling of wiry muscle under fabric. Elbow raised like a cellist in bad form, Dr. Tyrell placed his employee’s ankle below his shoulder, his hand settling just above it.
Like a musician, Tyrell was peaceful, even his bicep unflexed. The new insistence eased him while his subject’s flexibility continued to be tested.
Bucking a little, Sebastian’s left leg curled up without aid. The muscles in the held leg trembling, a different kind of tension came as if his knee joint were inverting.
Stomach spasming-the strings pulling up his abdomen tickling- Sebastian’s eyes shut, the ceiling or any darkness paling compared to feeling. The hard table under his head, his foot starting to twitch against it’s designated perch-
Tyrell’s right hand found a new place on his body. From over to under, the CEO’s hand moved high up J.F’s thigh, easily feeling the distinction his shorts wouldn’t cover. Fabric rolling up, Tyrell- amid all his willfulness- disregarded them entirely.
Cutting clear through the pain, Sebastian felt Tyrell’s thumb dig into his gracillis muscle. The pressing and rubbing against his inner thigh-how the harbinger was inching higher and higher-was spreading the warmer tension outward.
Heavier and just as demanding, fear was outstripped as the weaver, the knots in his stomach growing slick.
Abdominal muscles spasmed far less pleasantly when Sebastian tried raising his head. Plopping his jaw against his shoulder allowed a faceless view of Tyrell, his chest and arms moving deftly but ever so slightly.
The table was not a wall, but Sebastian's back was to it all the same, his wits frayed. Irrationally-moved by impulse as much as he was being subjected by them, the young man tried to move his hand down. To make him stop, to have a say. Facilitating, hindering, to do anything-
All at once came a shift. Like clockwork, Tyrell halted his ministrations as his hand drew back and joined the other in relinquishing J.F's limb. Holding his leg before pulling away, thin hands on the back of an ankle and thigh were gentle with the right information obtained. Tingling with the pain bordering on numbness, Sebastian's gratitude seeped to bone as cool wood cradled his knees again. Tyrell let out a breath, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he let go. Painless, he’d always hid himself so much better.
Time ticking and heart beating again, Sebastian felt spent.
Permission mattering little, J.F wanted out. Stiffness always following pain, he needed to try soon if he wanted to leave at all. The table ledge a bit too far, he'd have to get creative.
Even aching, it was harder to get up than Sebastian thought. The boy who used to climb trees and build tree-houses couldn’t explore his way out of father time’s unwanted embrace.
Pins and needles running down the spine that dare bend the other way, Sebastian tried using his elbows. Still begrudged, shaky abdominal muscles wouldn't allow it. Letting out a sigh, Sebastian tried another key. Holding his arms up for balance, Sebastian was about to sit up himself when Tyrell- who must have mistaken his tried-and-true method as a call for help-grabbed him. Pulled by his elbow and wrist, the two men were face to face again. As if checking the state of his veins, Tyrell's hold remained.
He got what he wanted. That much was clear from the sated, half-lidded smile.
Tyrell saw how much pain he incited and carried on anyhow; Maybe he even wanted to see it. The reverberations were sure to echo all night.
The corner of his mouth twitched, but no pretensions came. Sebastian's thoughts were smoke and dust.
“Thanks.”
Tyrell spoke again between the fire and the steps.
“I see Sajan neglected an entire area of interest.”
Leaning on the back of a chair, Sebastian almost didn’t hear. As soon as he was on his feet again, it was soon clear that standing straight only made the stubborn agony worse. He could only think of the kitchen drawer full of ratting bottles of various numbing. A bath could help the aches but heading straight to bed and sleeping the next 16 hours was far more likely.
“Which area?” Not wanting his boxers to ride up again, the exhausted man remained standing.
Tyrell’s eyes went bright, a scavanger spying a shiny thing.
“Reproductive health.”
The very word conjured the disheartening. The preceding event unlikely, the idea of possibly passing his disease on to another was anathema for the senescent scientist.
Sebastian’s face may as well be in the fireplace. His heart was a hummingbird flitting around the cage of his ribs. There was distance now, but Tyrell may as well have not let go at all.
Tyrell took a few steps forward. “For this part of the examination, I’m going need you to remove your undergarments.”
The older man drifted to the table’s other end, grasping a chair as if in imitation. He smiled, yet something hardened in magnified eyes.
“You can sit up on the table again if you like.”
All the pain was washed away by cold water. Sebastian’s innards throbbed as if surrounding a wound.
The chronologically old man gave orders, he’d given them all night, but to go any further-
Dizzy-his heart trying to tear itself from it’s strings, Sebastian could feel every touch culminating and conflicting. All along his chest, back, and thigh, how close Tyrell had gotten-
Too frozen to shake, the young man kept his eyes down, his throat tightening to nothing; His eyes were dry but he was starting to choke up all the same.
Sebastian closed his eyes, the shaking of his head near involuntary. He sounded too young and too old. “Please…”
Silent and still, Tyrell’s considering ended painlessly.
“Very well. I’ll request additional tests on your behalf.”
Feeling like a hobbling dog thrown a bone, Sebastian breathed a sign of relief. For now, there would be no prostate exams or hernia checks to endure. Not from his boss. Momentarilly untouched, the averted fate still played relentlessly in his head.
When he’d mustered the courage, Sebastian looked to Tyrell again. The taller man blinked, his head tilting for a moment like a small shrug.
“Onto the verbal…” He did not move further away.
“At what age did you reach puberty?”
Sebastian’s heart-rate was evening. “14.”
For the most part. Methuselah syndrome-and the effects it had on his thyroid and pituitary glands- had disrupted his puberty. From 14 to 16, J.F’s experienced gradual change in his height and voice, but-even accepting that he would always fall short of the ideal male archetype- some things never quite fell into place.
Sebastian was still hairless for the most part. He could shave his face now-not very often, admittedly- but it had only started within the past five years.
Peace was precarious, his boss always one step ahead.
“Do you ever grow hair on your chest?”
As if the lowered eyes carried weight, Sebastian felt smothered for a moment. Ever fidgeting, he rubbed the back of his neck.
“A li’l. Sometimes.”
“On your face?”
“Yes.”
Gleaning something else, Tyrell’s perpetial smirk broadened.
“You shave because you think facial hair makes you look older.”
Sebastian could only agree. “I do.”
With the same eyes, stubble deepened a loathsome resemblance of what-he really didn’t deserve who- he’d rather forget
“Have you ever noticed any silver hairs?”
“Not yet.” Feeling as if he’d ran up the building’s length, he’d resigned himself to questions. A part of him-wounded and wary-wanted to reach the door, modesty be damned.
Movement interrupted thought.
Two chairs length crossed soundlessly, Tyrell stepped before him, prompting Sebastian to stand erect, his hand jumping to the chair’s undulant finial.
He wanted to be left alone, to crawl somewhere inaccessible to human grasps. Fight or flight unavailing instincts, Sebastian only stood and watched as Tyrell reached up and touched him again. Not groping this time, two fingers tapped and descended.
Ribs down towards the middle of his chest-near parallel with the vestigial bumps, fingertips halted, the trail they left tickling.
“The difference in texture is clear. The hair never rises past here?”
The sporadic oval-as if it ever grew enough- never extended further.
“No…” Sebastian couldn’t stifle his breathing entirely. Lungs expanded and contracted in short bursts, but Tyrell’s hand was steadfast. As if reading a pretty line in braille, the doctor was serene, his eyes remaining far bellow Sebastian’s face. Fingers moved up than finally away before their owner took a few steps back, settling one seat away instead of two. There was such satisfaction in that singular façade. That anyone could look upon him and feel any such feeling…
Leering. It’s called leering.
Sebastian shut the voice out, suddenly aware of the heat the fire cast on his left side a full unconscious man’s length away.
At times Sebastian had found the low tones in Tyrell’s voice comforting, but now every vocalization was like the tightening of a rope.
“Do you know what nocturia is?”
“Yes.” Sebastian hoped he didn’t appear as frazzled as he was.
“How often do you wake at night?”
“Once, usually.”
“Since the prostate is a gland, I am anticipating it’s affectation. Jeswani or any of his underlings will deal with this later.”
Sebastian recalled what almost transpired and felt shame again. As if mocking him for being bashful- rubbing salt in the wounds he inflicted-a sadistic undercurrent surfaced in Tyrell’s smile.
“Can you maintain an erection?”
“…Y-yes.” Sebastian’s felt his face twitch.
Was this a form of punishment for not submitting fully? He’d begged not to-meager cotton still clung- but Sebastian felt naked all the same. Wild-eyed and blushing, he wished the giant window could open so he could throw himself out of it.
A brow raised as Tyrell continued.
“Your hormone levels were tested during your physical. Your testosterone was low compared to your typical twenty-five year old, but nowhere near the levels of a fifty or sixty year old man. “
“How active would you describe you’re sex drive, Sebastian?”
It was as if Tyrell wanted to provoke a reaction from him. An outburst? Tears? More pleading to stop ? Sebastian didn’t understand what his employer really wanted. If Tyrell just told him would it be any easier?
Libido was one of the things Sebastian determined when working on the brain; He was aware of every nerve ending running through the genitalia of both sexes. With replicants he could go on all day, but now-
Would answers make it stop? Would they keep the inconceivable at bay?
He wasn’t a rutting dog, but his mind took on a prurient bent of far more than he’d like.
“I don’t know. I get so busy, I just forget about that kinda thing.”
Tyrell was undeterred. “How often do you engage in masturbation?”
Why are you acting like this?
A trickle of indignation sparked through the bewilderment.
“I don’t know.“
“Not even a weekly estimate?”
There was something cocksure in his smile that Sebastian didn’t like at all. But his words were bringing about that warm, heavy feeling that had been plaguing him the past hour. Thinking of self-stimulation-all the private depredations that only hollowed him every time-only added to his embarrassment. That Tyrell was picturing the same thing-
Everything was hot and cold, whatever deniability Sebastian was clinging to slipping away. That he was getting excited, that he’d been fighting it this entire time, was unthinkable. Even if he could still feel the motions up his thigh.
Sebastian shook his headed, shrugging as he hugged himself.
It was as if they were playing chess again, Tyrell wearing the same expression preceding an advantageous move. His fingers tapped on his chair’s wooden back.
“In a year, what is your average number of sexual partners?”
Something twitched.
An intimate subject was enough to unsettle him. Just one would have been enough.
Humiliation should have deterred enough, yet Sebastian was thinking of all he could to avoid getting hard in front of his boss.
Please stop
“None.” The familiar sinking feeling dampened none of the others.
There was no mockery on Tyrell's face. Just that intense fascination.
“Have you ever contracted a sexually-transmitted disease?”
Such data would be in his medical files, wouldn’t they?
“N-no.”
“The biological sexes of those you lie with?”
Even a pale excuse for one, J.F was still a man. Strong perfume, spilling hair and breasts, a simulation of biological imperative’s fulfillment. Too warm, the vivid flashes brought no pleasure. Sebastian felt small remembering such a small sample size. Slim pickings for the freak.
“…Women.” Sebastian uttered.
Pity, amusement, curiosity, frustration? Conveying everything and nothing, Tyrell’s face was unreadable.
“You’ve never had sex with a man?”
Pale brows furrows before climbing upward. Sebastian, collar bones small ledges with shoulders raised, stared as he thought of a great many things.
“No, never.“
“I see.” Tyrell was distant again. The pound of flesh taken must have been enough to gnaw on.
Everything felt raw, his skin cold and his insides overwrought and stabbing.
“C-can I put my clothes back on?”
“You may.”
Relief did not come easily, and neither did his clothes back onto his body. Sebastian did accept a chair to slip on his shoes and pants. Tyrell’s gaze was oblique, the returning layers making little difference.
“Since you’ve started, you appear to have aged twenty years. For all intensive purposes you have. Even your gait has changed.”
Sebastian had no doubt it was true, he just didn’t realized anyone else had noticed.
Shame stirred again, the same one that burned every time he looked in a mirror. Another unwanted feather in the cap sewn to his scalp.
Tyrell spoke of future appointment and follow ups before suggesting massages and saunas. But not acupuncture, that’s all nonsense, he said.
Head hung low once the threshold was finally crossed again, Sebastian replayed the last handshake, how it did not linger like all his other appraisals. And there was the way he smiled-amidst every lipless contortion- as if contemplating what else he could get his underling to do if he asked. Heat departed, that final touch left only desolation in it's wake.
The elevator opened again. Sebastian’s last thought of the night-before long, black hours of wounded oblivion-was wondering if the voice who greeted him again belonged to a dead woman. A ghost who would never be free.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Izuku appeared in Central Yharnam from near the lantern with his feet hitting the stone tiles softly. The transition from one place to another instantaneously still made him feel off kilter and caused stars to blink in his eyes.
He walked to Gilberts window and exchanged a few pleasantries, gilbert informing him that he had the strangest hit of deja vu, cause he had talked to Izuku, remembered all their conversations, and yet as far as he could recall, this was Izuku’s first time at his window since… well he wasn’t sure.
After a few minutes of quiet conversation, Izuku began his trek to the bridge. However, Izuku hadn't expected the small groupings of enemies on the side path to be back. He blinked in disbelief at the shambling, snarling figures—the same mutated men he had slain only hours ago, alive once more, their wounds invisible, their hate renewed.
Time does not pass here.
The notebook had warned him. But to see it...
For it to be reinforced in front of him.
The moon still hung, pale and monstrous, in the exact position it had when he first stepped out of the clinic. No stars shifted. No clouds moved. The world was locked in an eternal instant, the god’s power freezing Yharnam in a silent, burning tableau of slaughter.
Izuku forced the thoughts away.
The new length and serration of his whip paid off immediately. Where once he struggled, now he shredded. The whip snapped through flesh and bone with a savage ease not present before—the blades biting deep into warped muscle. His heightened skill made the world seem to slow around him; he saw the slight dip of a shoulder before a cleaver swung, the twitch of a hand before a torch arced.
He moved through them with far more ease than he once had.
Kill after kill after kill. Each death drilled deeper into his skull. Each drop of blood brought another knife of pain to his temples, a mind-splitting headache that blurred his vision and bent his knees.
When he reached the archway leading to the bridge, he hesitated. Fear clawed at him.
The Cleric Beast. So far, the strongest thing he had fought in the nightmare that was his new life. Steeling himself, he passed under the arch.
The creature noticed him instantly.
It uncoiled from the shadows, its hulking frame grotesque and twitching with barely contained violence. Even knowing its size from before did not prepare him for its speed.
With a single leap, it crossed the distance between them.
Like a mountain falling.
Izuku’s perception sharpened—slotting everything into a slower speed.
He dove under the Cleric Beast’s first strike, rolling through the still-wet pool of blood that marked where his first attempt had ended. A small burst of energy accompanied the old blood that now clung to his clothes, to his skin, its sickly sweet rot filling his nostrils and burning his lungs.
The blood high surged—more violent, more eager.
With a click, his cane snapped into whip form.
Izuku lashed out at the beast’s thick, gnarled ankle, blades digging deep. The Cleric Beast howled, the sound tearing across the bridge like a living blade. Blood gushed from the wound, spraying over Izuku’s hands, his face, his open mouth.
He gagged on the taste but didn’t stop.
The whip ripped free with a harsh tug. The Cleric Beast staggered, lashing out blindly. A resounding click. Izuku stabbed the cane like a spear into the monster’s kneecap, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone shattering under the force.
But pain fueled the monster. It twisted with inhuman agility, claws raking across Izuku’s chest. Blood exploded from the tears in his flesh.
He screamed—but his body moved faster than his mind did.
A blood vial stabbed into an artery in his leg, dumping the cursed healing ichor into his veins. His wounds knitted closed almost instantly, the cursed magic stitching meat and bone together with burning agony.
The whip cracked into form once again. Twice, he slashed the beast’s face, aiming for the vulnerable slits of its eyes. The Cleric Beast shrieked in rage, swiping blindly. One claw barely missed his skull, shearing a gouge into the bridge stones behind him.
Keep moving.
Break it down.
He fired his pistol—six shots into the beast’s gaping maw. The bullets cracked through teeth and bone. The Cleric Beast staggered, clutching its bleeding face.
Izuku seized the moment.
He dashed forward, drove the cane through the beast’s jaw, and wrenched it sideways with all his strength. The monster’s lower mandible split with a wet crack, hanging loose by strands of sinew.
Blood painted the world around him.
Chunks of shredded flesh clung to his clothes, his hair. The bridge stank of gunpowder, meat, and fresh rot.
Victory was in his grasp—until the beast, blind with rage, lashed out. Its massive claw caught him midair, slamming him like a doll into the bridge wall. He heard the snap of his spine. Felt ribs shatter.
Pain, deep and black, swallowed him whole.
Rule One: Always focus on survival. Never get greedy.
Izuku would not forget again.
He fought.
And died.
And fought again.
The second, third, fourth, fifth deaths came swiftly—blinded by anger, by panic, by desperation.
Only when he embraced strategy, calculation, did he begin to endure.
The head. The arms. Weak points.
The head was weak to bullets, obviously, but not truely. It would shrug off five shots to the temple, the sixth seemed to break its fury for a moment and send it into panic. Almost always granting him an opportunity to plunge his cane into its temple, or jaw. Yet even with a hole in its skull and blood pooling with thick globs of brain matter—it fought on just the same.
The arms were also similarly weak, but in a different vein. He could not slice them off with his wip, the bones were too thick, the beast's main arm was large and grotesque, able to withstand a beating. It was the other arm that was his target. If he wrapped the bladed whip around the wrist, elbow, or shoulder of the beast and pulled, then tendons would rip. The agony of such an attack almost always seemed to cause it to jump back, retreat and scream in agony.
He learned the way the beast’s muscles moved before it struck. Learned the signs of its coming rage after every exploit of its weaknesses. The vulnerable moments when it cradled its wounded smaller arm and how to make it last.
On his twentieth attempt, he struck with fire.
A Molotov cocktail smashed into the Cleric Beast’s face, flames engulfing it in a howling inferno. It screamed, dropping to its knees—thick claws peeled into burning, stinking flesh in an attempt to put out the flames.
Izuku didn’t hesitate.
He drove the cane into the beast’s eye socket, then slammed his foot down on the handle, forcing the weapon deeper until the eye burst and bone cracked, spraying gore down the beast’s matted chest.
The thing staggered backward, half blinded.
He was on it instantly, hacking at exposed arteries, slicing tendons, pulling the whip taut around its arm and sawing back to shred meat and muscle. The beast tried to grab the whip, tried to wrench it free.
Izuku drew his pistol and unloaded every round he had into its ruined face.
It staggered back, body swaying as it roared up into the sky in agony. A sharp pull and the whip was free from the bloody limb, shearing through muscle. Izuku seized the momentum. He ran at it full tilt, jumping onto the harshly bent legs of the beast and using them as a springboard to soar over its head.
With an unnatural grace Izuku twisted in the air, flicked his wrist and the long chain of blades encircled the throat of the monster that kept killing him. Over and over again.
The wet hate from before flared as he fell onto its back as the whip came taught, and pulled.
The Cleric Beast gave one final, wet, gurgling roar—as its head was sliced off its shoulders.
The bridge trembled.
The silence that followed was oppressive.
Izuku stood amidst the wreckage, panting.
The creature's remains were unrecognizable. Viscera coated the stones. Chunks of bone and muscle littered the once-clean bridge. Blood—both the beast’s and his own—soaked him completely, dripping from his fingertips, matting his hair to his scalp.
The triumph he'd thought he would feel never came.
Instead, the bloodlust drained from him like air from a punctured lung.
The sight of what he had done—the smell of burned organs and torn flesh—churned his stomach violently. His hands shook uncontrollably. He had meant to kill it quickly. Mercifully.
Instead… he had butchered it.
Worse, as the memories of his previous deaths flooded back—dying while choking on his own blood, being eaten alive, rotting away limb by limb—the regret was drowned in raw, animal relief.
He hadn't killed out of mercy.
He had killed to survive.
He staggered to the edge of the bridge and fell to his knees, retching bile and blood onto the stones. Tears blurred his vision.
“What could I have done differently?” He didn't know anymore. Maybe if he had studied longer. Planned better. Been stronger.
But the truth was simpler.
In Yharnam, there was no room for mercy.
You killed.
Or you were killed.
And deep inside, a terrible, shivering truth dug its claws into Izuku’s heart.
He didn’t want to die anymore.
He would do whatever it took to live.
No matter what it made him.
No matter how many tears he would shed to do it.
Once Izuku found the energy to stand, he began searching the beast for anything left from its days as a cleric of the healing church. While the search in total was futile, he did find one thing on its still lightly steaming corpse. A badge—small, worn, stained in old blood.
Izuku turned it over in his hand. As he did, something strange happened. Some of the words in his notebook—the ones that had previously blurred and bled together, twisted into madness—shifted. They realigned, became legible.
He realized then: the badges weren't just proof of a kill, or an award or allegiance to and from certain hunter orders. They were keys.
Failsafes.
Only those who earned the right to bear them could decipher the knowledge they protected. Schematics for trick weapons, forbidden rites... secrets not meant for outsiders.
Tucking the badge carefully away, he made his way to the door at the end of the bridge and tried to open it. At first he held hope as he pushed, pulled and fumbled with the solid metal knob.
Izuku could feel a bitter panic building as he pounded on the door, hoping that someone would open it and allow him to progress deeper into the city, hopefully closer to those who the moon needed dead. Whoever they were.
Eventually, he gave up. The door was too thick and reinforced for him to break through easily, and he had no idea what was on the other side. The situation left him with one final path. The side of the city furthest from the lamp. He would need to head down the paths he had ignored or decided to write off till after his full exploitation of the area’s closest to the lamp—to safety—were finished. And now that all that was left was the path to Oedon Chapel, it was no longer an optional place for him to head.
Now Izuku would be lying if he said his natural curiosity wasn’t burning to find out all he could about the city, even if it was buried under fear.
So he found himself in an alleyway hopefully heading to his destination. The alley was narrow, choked with cages. Inside each cage, dogs—if they could still be called that—snarled and snapped, mutated jaws foaming with rage. Some were too far gone to even stand, their bodies twisted and mangled.
Izuku hesitated.
They couldn’t fight back.
Not really.
His whip cracked out once, twice, slicing through the cages, through flesh and bone. Each yelp tore at his heart worse than any claw ever could.
He hated this.
The blood high wanted to cheer.
Wanted to savor the power.
Izuku crushed it underfoot the best he could.
Past the cages, the cries of an old woman drifted down the street.
A heavy wooden door rattled as a beast—an enormous, skeletal dog—threw itself against it, scratching and barking with relentless hunger. It had already carved deep gouges into the wood, and another few minutes would’ve seen it inside.
Izuku approached silently. With a single, precise whip crack, he severed the beast’s head from its body.
It collapsed without a sound.
He stepped toward the door, raising a hand to knock, when a raspy voice snapped from the other side: “Oh, you're a hunter, aren't ya? If you hunters got off your arses, we wouldn't be in this mess! You're obligated to help me, you hear?! So what'll it be? Are you gonna tell me if there’s a safe place, or not?"
Izuku froze. Safe places? His heart leapt at the idea—but no, the notebook hadn't mentioned any sanctuaries yet.
Still, he couldn't just leave her hopeless. “Ah, n-no, ma'am! I-I'm new to the town, but—if I find a safe place, I’ll tell you! I promise!" he stammered, trying to sound braver than he felt.
A scoff, heavy with bitterness. “I should have known. Ya good-for-nothin'... No respect for the elderly, that's what it is, 'specially you young'uns! Outsiders, bah! You think we're all mad, don't ya? Well, go on, stuff it! I know all yer tricks!" The malice in her voice made Izuku take an involuntary step back.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and hurried down the street. He would find her a safe place. He had to. Even if it was just one person tonight—he would be a hero to someone.
The next path led downward, a long staircase spiraling into a warehouse.
The air grew colder.
The space past the stairs was massive, it sprawled downward in layers—stairs leading to ladders and an open pit to the open sewerage, walkways strung across it like spiderwebs.
Something caught his eye behind a wall of stacked crates and barrels just moments before he descended into the warehouse—a broken wall, half-concealed.
Izuku smashed the debris aside with careful swings of his cane.
Beyond, a narrow, crumbling wooden walkway looped above the warehouse’s ground floor.
He moved slowly across the suspended path, feeling every creak and groan of the aged boards beneath his boots. The faint smell of rot and old blood drifted up from below.
Scavenging as he went, he found a few blood vials and bullets hidden in crates and splintered boxes.
He stopped at the first bridge.
A corpse hung upside-down by its legs, swaying gently in the stale breeze. Bloodstone shards glinted from a pouch tucked into its pocket.
Izuku edged closer. With careful, almost surgical movements, he hooked the body with his cane and reeled it in, snatching the stones without disturbing the precarious balance.
The second corpse held a greater prize. A saw weapon, strapped across its back—heavy, rusted, but functional. He pulled it free and tied it carefully to his pack.
At the far end of the walkway, a miracle—an open doorway leading out into the night again.
The cold air slapped him as he stepped outside.
And there, by the fence, a figure stood waiting.
Tall.
Shrouded in black.
Feathered cloak fluttering like a living thing in the night wind.
A bleached white plague doctor’s mask stared down at him—empty-eyed and ancient.
Izuku’s heart jumped into his throat. He forced himself forward, cautious. “U-Hi?” he squeaked.
The figure turned. “Oh, well now. Aren't you a bit young to be out during a hunt?” the woman’s voice was sharp but not unkind. Stern, yes—but carrying something Izuku hadn't heard in hours: concern.
She eyed him, taking in the bloodstained clothes, the whip and gun at his belt. “By those weapons and that outfit… a Hoonter, aren’t ya? And an outsider, too, I wager. What a mess you’ve gotten caught up in—and on a night like this."
Izuku absentmindedly noted she said Hunter as Hoonter, with such conviction at that, that he imagined she had been doing it her whole life.
She let out a heavy sigh, then beckoned him over. “Here. Welcome to the Hunt, little crow." She handed him four yellowed scraps of parchment.
“Bold Hunter’s Marks. You’re Moon Touched—you’ll know how to use 'em."
Izuku blinked. “H-How did you know I-I’m Moon Touched? I thought it wasn’t… obvious…”
The woman chuckled dryly. “Moon Touched Hoonters carry a glow about 'em. Soft as moonlight. Those who can see it, feel it. It’s not a sight most welcome in Yharnam these days."
Her tone grew harder. "Prepare yourself, young one. There are no humans left. Only beasts in human skin."
She gave him a firm pat on the back—surprisingly warm through her thick gloves—and turned to the open night air she had been gazing into before his arrival.
But Izuku lingered. He didn’t want to be alone again. Even a minute longer standing next to someone alive made the cold inside him ease.
She turned back, sensing his hesitation. "Still lingering about? What’s wrong, little crow? Afraid of a few beasts?”
She grabbed his shoulders, gripping tight enough that he felt it through his coat. Her masked gaze bore into him, black voids that seemed to see everything he wanted to hide.
"Without fear in our hearts," she said softly, "we’re little different from the beasts themselves."
She gave him a light shove.
“Shake off your cape and keep hoontin. You’ll stop trembling soon enough. A Hunter must hunt."
Her words rang in his chest like a bell.
Not grandiose.
Not inspiring.
But real.
Exactly what he needed.
The last few hours had nearly broken him. He had lost his humanity, even if only for seconds. Had let hate and rage guide his hands. But the bloodlust—it was a tool. It wasn’t him.
If he could learn to use it without being swallowed by it—if he could hunt his way—then maybe, just maybe, he could survive this nightmare.
Maybe he could still be Izuku Midoriya.
He straightened his back. Tightened his grip on his weapons. Bowed slightly to the Crow Hunter. And turned toward the fog-choked streets once more.
He could fight it. Claim that he could master the bloodlust, the blood high that kept his legs going and his mind sharp during the fights. But even as the thought crossed his mind he knew better, deep down.
He wouldn’t be able to change this world, it would change him.
But he could still lie to himself and claim he could be Izuku Midoriya by the end of it all.
Not long after his encounter with the crow hunter, Izuku would find himself ankle deep in stinking muck.
In his hand he held a skull that was almost warm to the touch, the notebook called it a Madman's Knowledge. Somehow he had found it in the sewerage—tucked behind a pack of giant, slavering rats with eyes like burning embers.
His mind somersaulted with sensations as he kept moving forward, breathing heavy. Maybe he hadn't gotten as good at controlling the bloodlust as he thought. But he was getting better. Another lie.
A lie he told himself as he trudged through the filth and fought through a cluster of living corpses—sagging, rotted men and women who groaned and flailed with ruined hands. Their appearance no longer shocked him as it once had. He felt the horror dull at the edges, replaced by a low, cold acceptance. He had seen things worse in movies back in his world.
But the killing…
Every strike that severed a head. Every whip that tore through belly and bone. Every gurgling death rattle— It still made his stomach churn with disgust. Not just because of how it made him feel, but because of what it didn’t. When the blood high was roaring in his ears, he found unending joy in the noises they made as he crushed bones under foot. Even after his affirmations to himself to survive no matter the cost, he knew that the cost truly might be too much.
Izuku returned to the Dream a few times after the sewer crawl—sometimes by choice, sometimes dragged back by death thanks to one or more of the dead things faking their second deaths so well. He wouldn’t trust a corpse again.
Between each visit, he built. He tinkered.
He managed to improve his pistol: an extended barrel, welded with shaky but determined hands, helped stabilize his aim. It wasn’t a massive improvement, but it felt good to shape something with purpose instead of just destroying.
Each time the Doll helped him grow stronger, he felt it. Subtle at first. Deeper breaths. A stronger heartbeat. A resilience against the endless ache. It was as if the transfusion—the cursed blood that had twisted him into this half-thing—was finally settling into his bones, making him a part of this world more and more.
Then he found the little girl.
A tiny voice, quivering behind a barred window.
The wood was splintered and old, the iron grate bolted hastily across it. Beyond it, he could just make out a small, trembling figure tucked away in the dark—a child, too fragile for the horrors gnawing at Yharnam’s broken bones.
Alone.
Abandoned.
Left behind while the city devoured itself.
A voice, barely a whisper, floated to him: "Who... are you?" She sounded terrified. Small.
Izuku went to speak, only a small utterance exited his lips before she spoke once more, "I... I don't know your voice, but... I know that smell... Are you a hunter?"
Izuku pressed closer, heart pounding painfully against his ribs. He struggled to find his voice—he didn’t want to frighten her. "Y-Yes," he said softly. "I'm a hunter."
A small, shuddering breath. "Then... please. Please, will you look for my mum?" The words tumbled out of her in a frantic rush. "Daddy never came back from the hunt, and she... she went to find him... but now she's gone too. I'm all alone... and I'm so scared..."
Izuku's chest tightened painfully. He knelt down by the window, trying to sound calm, strong—like the heroes he had once admired. "I'll find her," he promised. "I-I swear."
There was a long silence.
Then, carefully, a tiny hand reached through the bars, pressing something into his palm. It was small, delicate.
A music box.
Worn, but lovingly cared for.
"Really...? Oh... thank you!" she gasped, her voice breaking with hope. She clung to that hope like a drowning sailor to a piece of driftwood.
"My m-mum wears a red jeweled brooch," she explained breathlessly. "It's so big and... and beautiful. You won't miss it." Izuku closed his fingers around the music box gently, as if it were made of glass.
The little girl’s voice softened, almost fond. "I mustn’t forget... If you find my mum, give her this music box." A sniffle. "It... it plays one of Daddy’s favorite songs. And when Daddy forgets us, we play it for him. So he remembers."
A sad little laugh, forced and fragile. "Mum’s so silly... running off without it."
She repeated herself again, the way small children do when trying desperately to be heard: "Remember. My mum wears a red jeweled brooch. So big and beautiful that there is no way you could miss it. And if you find her, please... Please give her the music box before she gets to daddy."
Izuku pressed the box against his chest for a moment, feeling the faint warmth left by her tiny hands.
The weight of the promise was crushing.
He looked back down the street—the smoke, the fire, the death waiting around every corner.
The memory still burned. It boiled in his veins like molten iron. He had sworn to find her mother.
Sworn.
But even as he tucked the music box safely into his pouch, a terrible gnawing fear chewed at his heart.
He was already too late.
He tried to push those emotions down as he kept his feet moving through more muck and gunk that clotted the sewerage. He needed to make it to some ladder to even make his way to Oedon Chapel, for some reason the path the notebook was taking him was through the stinking sludge.
Into the smallest, foulest artery of the city's veins.
The walls sweated with filth. The air was so thick it clung to his skin like mold. Every step sent ripples through the murky water. Somewhere ahead, something shifted. A part of him wished he had climbed the ladder at the entrance to the tunnel he found himself in.
A low, wet scraping noise echoed from the inky blackness in front of Izuku, his shoulders tensed. The sewer shook as a horrible screech exploded from the darkness.
Something massive—far too massive—shoved itself down the tunnel.
In the brief glimpse before it struck, he saw yellowed tusks, blood-clotted bristles, a wide mouth steaming rot. A pig. A monster the size of a truck, snorting and grunting, its bloated body barreling forward.
Before he could move, the pig’s head slammed into him like a battering ram, hurling him into the filthy water.
His body screamed in protest, but adrenaline dulled the pain.
Move. Fight. Survive.
A click echoed in the tunnel—the sound of his cane snapping into whip form. The blades carved a burning line across the pig’s snout. The creature bellowed, a sound so deep it rattled Izuku’s teeth.
Its black blood gushed in ropes across the stone.
The pig charged again—but here, in the wider part of the tunnel, Izuku had space. He dodged left, rolling to his feet in a splash of fetid water.
The whip lashed out again and again, reducing the pig’s hind legs to shredded meat. Tendons snapped. Bone gleamed through flaps of ruined flesh.
The monster stumbled, squealing in rage.
Izuku didn’t hesitate.
He snapped his cane back into its hardened form, drove it into the side of the pig’s massive skull, and wrenched. There was a crack—a sick, wet finality.
The beast dropped. Its carcass was bigger than any cart or carriage Izuku had ever seen.
Which meant—Loot.
He grimaced and set to work, gutting the thing.
Entrails spilled out in coils of slick, foul-smelling horror, coating him from boots to shoulders. By the time he finished, he had six precious blood vials tucked into his pouch—and smelled worse than anything he could imagine.
Even the blood high couldn’t numb the stench. Gritting his teeth, Izuku pressed onward. Past the pig's broken body, the sewer opened into a larger chamber.
Two corpses lay slumped in the shallow water. One carried more blood vials. The other...
Izuku’s heart skipped.
A badge. The Saw Hunter’s Badge. He pocketed it carefully. The information it unlocked wasn’t complete yet—but each badge peeled back another layer of mystery.
Another piece of the old hunter's world was revealed.
He climbed out of the sewer through a heavy door tucked near a crumbling drop, hauling himself up a rusted ladder. The stench clung to him like a second skin.
At the top—more mob members. A hulking hunchback loomed near a giant mound of tinder, stacked high and ready to burn.
Izuku wasted no time.
One crack of the whip brought a shield-wielding man crashing down. His torch dropped—and the tinder caught.
The fire roared to life, bright and furious.
Panicked, the hunchback shoved the flaming ball down the bridge.
The rest of the mob didn’t even have time to scream.
The flaming mass tore through them like a meteor, scattering bodies in its wake. The hunchback was burned, staggering, half-mad with pain. Izuku ended it swiftly with a blow to the spine.
The bridge was quiet again—save for the crackling of embers and the stink of burnt flesh. He scavenged through the bodies, collecting bullets and vials, before spotting something unusual.
An elevator.
Old, wrought iron and steel, humming faintly.
Izuku hesitated. It reminded him of the ancient elevators from the black-and-white movies he used to watch with his mom when she still had time for nights off. When she still had time for him.
Memories ached in his chest.
The elevator rattled upward. Short, simple. A tight ascent. And when the doors opened—His breath caught.
He knew this street. Near Gilbert’s window. Near safety. A shortcut. Relief poured through him, almost enough to make him cry. He grinned for the first time in what felt like hours.
"Hell YA! A shortcut!" he whispered fiercely, his voice cracking under the pressure of it all.
One small victory.
Still, he pushed himself forward, heading back down the elevator and pulling out the music box as he walked down the large stone bridge, the corpses around him charred and slashed.
"A small music box received from a young Yharnam girl. It plays a song shared by her mother and father. Inside the lid is a small scrap of paper, perhaps an old message.
Two names can be made out, however faintly: Viola and Gascoigne." If Izuku had to describe the music box, that would be it. He held it in shaking hands as it rang out its melodies softly into the night air.
Izuku closed the music box with trembling fingers. His stomach roiled as he stepped through the cracked gate into the cemetery.
The smell hit first—thick, cloying, a brutal blend of blood and cold earth. It clung to the back of his throat, suffocating. He gagged but forced himself forward, boots crunching on loose gravel and shattered bones.
Ahead, in the half-light cast by broken lanterns, stood a man.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in the blackened, tattered garb of a Yharnam priest. And drenched in blood.
Not the old, darkened stains of beasts. Fresh. Bright red. Human.
Bodies lay scattered around him, slumped against gravestones and crumpled in the mud. Some were little more than torn cloth and pulp, but others—
Faces.
Human faces.
Eyes open, frozen mid-scream.
Some still clutched at mortal wounds as if they had been trying to beg, or pray.
Izuku staggered back a step, his heart hammering.
The man's chest heaved with heavy, ragged breaths. A low mutter floated on the chill air. "...Beasts all over the shop... You’ll be one of them, sooner or later..." The voice was gravel dragged across stone, deep and hollow.
The bloodlust pouring from the man was a tangible thing—thick, oppressive, so powerful it left Izuku feeling suffocated, like a rabbit staring into the maw of a wolf.
The Sludge Villain had terrified him.
The Cleric Beast had overwhelmed him.
But this—This was hatred made flesh.
Murder distilled into its purest form.
Before Izuku could even think to react, the priest moved.
Not a lurch, not a shuffle—but a hunter’s dash, swift and brutal.
Steel glinted.
A massive axe, already slick with blood, swung in a deadly arc toward Izuku’s head.
Pain bloomed. White-hot, instantaneous.
His left arm was gone—not severed cleanly, but shredded, the bones twisted and flesh torn as the axe glanced off and ripped away half his limb in a spray of blood.
Before the scream could even escape his throat, another sound ripped through the cemetery.
BLAM. The blunderbuss fired.
A scatter of burning-hot lead tore into his legs, shattering bone and ripping tendons. He collapsed.
Hard.
The gravel tore at his hand and cheeks as he hit the ground, the world spinning in a swirl of pain and horror. Blood spilled from him in torrents, soaking into the cracked, dry soil.
His vision blurred.
Consciousness ebbed away like a receding tide.
The last thing he saw was the priest towering over him, axe glinting under the grim moonlight, eyes hidden behind a bloodied scarf. A man who had once been something noble— Now reduced to rage.
To ruin.
To beast.
And then darkness took him.
With a gasp, Izuku shot upright in the Hunter’s Dream.
Pain lanced through his chest, arms, and legs, ghostly echoes of wounds that no longer bled. He clutched at himself instinctively, half-expecting to find torn muscle, shattered bones—but his body was whole.
Yet the ache remained. Phantom pain.
The memory of the man’s axe—the crushing weight of defeat—was burned into his nerves.
Whoever that man was... he was merciless. A hunter, through and through. But unlike the Crow Lady. Unlike himself. This man had lost everything to his bloodlust. Whatever humanity he once clung to had drowned under the tide of rage.
And yet… who else could it have been?
The little girl's father.
Viola.
Gascoigne.
The names floated like ashes across his mind.
“Good hunter?” The Doll’s voice reached him through the haze, soft and concerned. “Why are you just sitting there? Is it some sort of game?"
Izuku blinked, dragging himself back into the now. The Dream's gentle winds stirred his hair. The faint scent of old parchment and iron filled the air. “No. I—uh—I was thinking…” he said, voice cracking slightly. “I need to speak with Gehrman. D-Do you know where he is?”
The Doll smiled kindly. “I believe he is in the workshop at the moment. Farewell, good hunter. May you find your worth in the waking world."
“T-Thank you, Doll," he mumbled, rising to his feet with a wince.
The workshop was warm compared to the cool expanse of the Dream, filled with the faint scent of oil and scorched metal. Lanterns flickered low, casting long, deep shadows between the bookshelves and tool racks.
Gehrman was there, of course—sitting near a heavy oak table, fiddling with an ancient blunderbuss.
Izuku hesitated at the door.
He knew the old man didn't love being interrupted when he was reading or tinkering. Gehrman had already grumbled more than once about Izuku’s endless scouring of every book and scrap of parchment in the place.
It was understandable, really.
But how could he stop?
The Dream held secrets.
Even if some of it—like the battered manual titled "How To Pick Up Fair Maidens"—was... less than useful at the moment.
Still, hidden among the nonsense, Izuku had found treasures: Old hunter’s notes about the weaknesses of monstrous beasts larger than mountains. Fragments of lore about chalices and the cursed depths they could unlock. Techniques and rituals from a time when the first Hunters still thought the Hunt a blessing rather than a curse.
One art had caught Izuku’s attention above all others. Quickening.
Tucked between entries about blood sheathing weapons and attuning to cosmic forces, Quickening spoke of something… different.
Awakening the old blood within one’s veins.
Shifting the body between reality and illusion.
Dodging attacks by slipping through space itself.
Some of the old masters could turn a step into a twenty-foot flash of movement. A Hunter empowered by Quickening could cut monsters down before they could even react.
But every old text agreed: It required training from an experienced Hunter. And a body already saturated with old blood.
Izuku’s hand flexed at his side. The old blood was already inside him. He just needed the knowledge. He swallowed hard, then approached.
Gehrman was mid-lecture, as usual. "...And that, boy, is why you never, ever try to ride a Darkbeast. No matter how tempting it seems."
Izuku blinked, thrown off. "I—wha—why would you even try that?"
Gehrman chuckled, a low, rattling sound like distant thunder. "It was my youth... When the Hunts first started, we treated 'em more like games. Bloody foolishness, lookin' back."
Izuku smiled awkwardly but quickly sobered. "Gehrman... Can I ask a favor?"
The old hunter sighed, setting down his weapon with a heavy clunk. "What is it now? You've read damn near everything in this bloody place... what more could you possibly want?"
Izuku hesitated—then squared his shoulders.
Fear was still there.
Still gnawing.
But he wouldn't let it freeze him this time.
"I-I found something in one of the books. About Quickening. C-Can you teach me? I-I know it’s a lot to ask but… I really want to learn it! I—I think it could help me survive." His words spilled out in a rush, tangled and desperate.
Gehrman went still. For a long, heavy moment, the only sound was the crackling fire in the hearth.
When the old man finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. "Ah... Quickening."
He leaned back in his chair, studying Izuku with a gaze that suddenly felt heavy, evaluative. "That's not a question I’ve heard in a long, long time," Gehrman said, his smile sad and sharp all at once. "Most hunters today ain't got the stomach for it. Nor patience."
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "...I suppose I could teach you the basics. Give you a taste of it. But listen well, boy." He leaned forward, shadows gathering around the lines of his face.
"If I teach you this... you’re on your own from there. No more asking for old arts. You figure out the rest yourself. You bleed for it. You fight for it. That’s the way of the Hunt." The seriousness in his voice made Izuku’s spine stiffen. No teasing. No lightness.
This was a binding. A vow. Izuku swallowed hard—and bowed deeply. “T-Thank you, Gehrman! I-I promise! I won't ask for another!"
The old hunter laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Maybe you’ll survive this yet."
Izuku would continue to hunt the streets of Yharnam periodically after his deal with Gherman. Mostly to make up for the sheer quantity of blood echoes lost to the man in the cemetery. However he also used it to get more accustomed to killing, and using his weapons in general. Most of all it was to use up his “free time.”
He would keep this up for days at a time, mentally logging hours and minutes as best as he could. Spending more time in the dream learning from Gherman and tinkering than fighting.
The first time Izuku actually achieved Quickening, it hurled him straight off the edge of the Hunter’s Dream.
One moment he was standing firm, feeling the strange pull of the old blood humming under his skin—and the next, reality shifted. The world bent sideways, light twisted into knives, and he plummeted into the black void beyond the cliffs.
He fell for what felt like half an hour, the wind screaming past him. The fall ended with a wet, final crack as he slammed into something unseen—and died.
When he returned, gasping on the dewy grass under the old tree, he staggered upright and half-limped back toward the workshop.
He found Gehrman inside—still laughing.
The old man clutched his stomach, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Izuku flushed crimson, somewhere between mortified and furious.
At least Gehrman had a sense of humor.
The Doll, however, did not find it amusing. She scolded him sternly, her soft voice taking on a sharper, motherly edge that made Izuku duck his head like a guilty child.
"You must exercise caution, good hunter," she chided gently, brushing blood and dreamstuff from his jacket like a mother cleaning her son before guests arrived. "Recklessness will not carry you far in the waking world—or in this one."
It reminded him painfully of his mom, not the one from the last few years, but the one from his childhood. It made him promise, silently, to be better.
The road to mastering Quickening was long and brutal.
By the Dream's strange clock, it took eight days. By Izuku’s internal clock, it was three weeks. One of them had to be right, or else he was losing time more and more.
Every time he returned to Yharnam, the Moon hung in the exact same place—high and bloated, unblinking.
The beasts returned with the same screams and the same bloodlust.
The streets smelled of the same coppery rot.
And yet—not everything was the same.
The loot they dropped varied—sometimes an abundance of bullets and blood vials, other times almost nothing. Reality was not quite fixed anymore, or perhaps there had always been some variation.
When his body ached too much from Quickening practice to do anything else—he wandered Yharnam. His “free time,” as he called it.
Clearing the same streets.
Fighting the same beasts.
Again.
And again.
And again.
At first it was torture.
Then it became something else.
Soothing, in a horrible way.
The repetition dulled the panic.
The kills became mechanical—reflexes honed like a blade, not driven by hatred or frenzy but cold, deliberate precision.
It kept his mind busy.
It kept him from thinking too hard about how much time had passed in the waking world.
It kept him from remembering that he had been murdered.
And that he was getting better at it.
At least now… Now he would be ready to fight that hunter soon. Both Gehrman and the Doll noticed it after a while. The strangeness.
Every time Izuku strengthened himself, every time the Doll channeled blood echoes into his form, the results were... unnatural. One upgrade to his was unnaturally potent in comparison to most other hunters.
His reflexes sharpened faster than any they had seen.
His blood, his mind, his spirit—all changed with alarming speed.
Yharnam was unnatural.
The Dream was unnatural.
But this—this was something different.
For the Doll, he reminded her of Gehrman’s earliest, brightest students. Hunters who had not yet broken under the weight of endless nights. Or perhaps—perhaps he was something else entirely.
She watched him scribbling madly at the workbench—complex blueprints for weapons, tools, upgrades sketched out in neat, obsessive strokes.
A thousand tiny improvements.
A thousand ideas sparked from blood and desperation.
He built as much as he fought.
Most hunters surrendered to the Hunt—to the will of the Moon.
Izuku adapted.
He used it.
The Moon itself seemed... pleased, in its cold, unfathomable way. Even Gehrman’s nightmares—once so thick they choked the air around the workshop—had lessened.
And her own thoughts had grown lighter.
The Dream, long stagnant and sorrowful, moved again.
All because of him.
For Gehrman… It was like seeing echoes of the old days. When the first students came to him, hungry for knowledge. Before the despair, before the regret.
He saw it in the way Izuku hung on every word—even the stupid stories. Even the failures. The boy didn’t laugh at them.
He learned from them.
Quickening was supposed to be a one-time gift. A small piece of the old ways, nothing more. But how could he refuse when the kid’s entire face lit up with excitement every time a new secret was unearthed?
No hunter had ever bent the Dream to their whim before.
No hunter had ever stirred it awake.
Still… Gehrman couldn’t explain the strange trinkets that started appearing.
Small, colorful figures made of dreamstuff—heroes in bright spandex armor, locked in poses of defiance and hope.
They hadn’t been there before. They clashed horribly with the solemn gravestones and somber workshops.
But somehow… They fit.
Izuku Midoriya was changing the Dream, how or why Gehrman could not explain. And maybe—just maybe—there was a chance of the long night ending with a celebration instead of a somber procession.
Instead of him having to pick up his burial blade once more, maybe something different could happen.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
“Using your mutant powers is technically cheating, you know,” Scott crosses his arm over his chest and glares. Remy dangles the watch teasingly in his fingers before handing it back to him.
“Not cheatin’ if ya get away with it, darlin’,” The other man grins and winks. Scott reluctantly takes a Twinkie from his own stash and tosses it over into Remy’s pile. “Another round?” He asks with a crooked smile.
“What are they doing?” Peter asks Dr. Pym and takes a sip of his hot cocoa. Hank rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
“They’re trying to out-pickpocket each other,” He says long-sufferingly. Peter eyes the two mountains of Twinkies on the couch dubiously.
“And whoever wins get all the Twinkies?” Peter hazards a guess. Hank sighs and puts a hand to his hip, eyeing Scott with an annoyed scowl.
“I am reconsidering making him my protege. Maybe you’d like to take the idiot’s place, Peter.”
“Hey, I heard that Hank!” Scott calls from the living room.
Dr. Pym rolls his eyes and takes a sip from his tea cup. “I blame your friend Erik for introducing them to each other. Scott’s a menace by himself, but the two of them combined together?” Hank clicks his tongue, “this morning, they nearly got arrested when they decided that it was a great idea to time each other and break into a couple of safes across the neighborhood. Good thing Paxton got there in time to prevent things from escalating.”
“Pax said he felt like he was more married to me than Maggie,” Scott laughs when he wanders into the kitchen and steals Peter’s hot cocoa.
“I really don’t think that was a compliment, Scott,” Peter smirks when Remy follows his new friend inside and tosses the teenager a Twinkie.
“Was that from my stash?” Scott narrows his eyes at the other man when Remy lifts the cocoa from his loose fingers. Peter breaks the Twinkie in half and clicks his tongue at the shadowy mass under the table. Venom rears up like the world’s ugliest dog and wraps his whole face around Peter’s hand. Venom’s half of the Twinkie is gone when it lets go of Peter reluctantly and goes back to relaxing at his feet.
“Ugh, God. That doesn’t look sanitary, kid,” Scott groans, sidling behind Remy with a nauseous look on his face. “You should keep some hand sanitizer in your backpack. Who knows what kind of space STDs that thing’s got.”
“Seriously?” Remy twists to give Scott an amused look. Scott shrugs.
“What? I have a daughter. You’ve gotta keep those things in mind,” He says defensively, eyeing the roiling shadows under the table uneasily. Remy laughs at that, and Peter tosses his Twinkie wrapper at Scott when the man reaches out and ruffles his hair teasingly.
“But, on a serious note, don’t let your guard down, Pete. Things that offer unlimited power without a price are often dangerous.” Scott says solemnly.
“Scott’s right,” Hank says. “Even with the fail-safe in place, you can never be too cautious.”
“Glad to see you’re socializing, Hank. But this wasn’t what I had in mind. Less handsome muscular young men and more flower-print old folk with dentures,” An amused voice says in the doorway and a pretty brunet woman in a sharp black business dress walks in. She kisses Scott on the cheek, runs her approving gaze over Remy’s body and holds her hand out to Peter. “Hope Van Dyne.”
“Would it kill you to call me ‘dad?'” Hank mutters and pinches the bridge of his nose. Peter bursts out laughing and returns the handshake. “Peter Parker.”
“I like her,” He tells Dr. Pym with a bright smile. Hank sighs like the whole world is plotting against him.
“So what now?” Peter asks when the others had all filed into the dinning room.
“Now we find out what it’s capable of and train you to fully utilize Venom’s skills to protect yourself,” Dr. Pym says. “But dinner first.”
It’s the forth time he gets punched. In the face.
“Ow, ow, ow. Nicolai stop, this isn’t helping,” Peter pushes away the ice bag and winces as his cheek throbs in pain. “Scott, were you even aiming for the shoulder?”
“Sorry, Hank said the monster slime suit was supposed to protect you, so I thought you wanted me to go all Hope on you…” Across the room, Scott shoots him a guilty and apologetic look as he bounces on his feet.
“Well, Hank lied,” Peter groans miserably, batting away Nicolai’s insistent ice bag and pushing to his feet again. Venom’s voice is an enticing whisper in the back of his mind.
“Give me more sssss control…"
“That doesn’t sound like such a hot idea.”
“I will not harm sssss you, Peter. Fight. Win. Together ssssstrong..."
“How will I know that you won’t hurt my friends?”
Scott and Nicolai both shoot him concerned looks. Peter knows how stupid he must appear, talking to thin air. Across the basement, Loki stands in a rustle of leather and metal, his bright green eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Protect you… Friends are Venom’s friendssss…”
“How would I even do that if I wanted to? The scramblers would-”
“Relax…”
“Pete, you okay for another round or what?” Scott calls out to him.
Okay, but you’d better not lie to me, or they will kill you.
Peter projects the words silently in his mind and feels Venom purr in reply.
“Yeah, I’m good,” He says out loud to Scott and lets Venom cover up his unprotected face again.
This time he relaxes his mind and allows the alien presence in his head to guide him with muscle control. When Scott throws his punch, Peter sees things as if they’d been put in slow-mo, his own body stepping smoothly to the left and two steps back to avoid the subsequent knee to the stomach. He rocks back on the balls of his feet and leaps, raising one hand and shooting a glob of something stringy onto the ceiling over the other man’s head as he uses the momentum to lash out, kicking Scott in his unsuspecting chest and sending him stumbling back into the spare punching bags.
“Holy shit,” Scott says when Peter blinks down and sees the three of them peering up at him. Nicolai’s grey-blue eyes are wide with amazement, his mouth slightly parted.
The kid's perched upside-down on the ceiling of Hank’s basement training room, crouched on his hands and feet, and firmly attached to the smooth wall. Venom’s voice is a smug little thing in the back of his mind.
Scott’s wandered over to the dangling dark stringy stuff Peter had used to launch himself onto the ceiling and rubbing the material between his thumb and forefinger.
“Dude, I believe you just ejaculated from your wrist,” He says, shooting Peter a disturbed look.
“Can you at least hold my hand through this? I’m traumatized. Five months of training with you and I get my ass handed back to me on a platter by the new kid,” Scott whines, squinting through a puffy bruised eye at his girlfriend. "And on the first day."
“You’re going to be fine, Princess. Stop fussing,” Hope slaps the ice pack into his chest and crosses her arms with a small smile. Scott scowls and aims his most pathetic puppy-dog eyes up at her.
“Okay, who’s next?” Peter calls from the other room, poking his head out into the hall. “Where’s our next sparring partner?”
Seated across from Scott, Nicolai sighs and stands. He glances at Wade in puzzlement when the ex-merc also bounces to his feet.
“Technically it’s two against one, and one of them has years of combat experience. You’ll need backup, Nikoleta,” He sidles up to the silent Russian assassin and wiggles his eyebrows behind the mask. Nicolai shoots him a flat unimpressed look.
“You just want a chance to touch his butt,” He points out in a low expressionless voice. Scott chokes on his water bottle and Hope raises a thin eyebrow at them.
“Yup, that about sums up the situation,” Wade slings an arm around the man’s broad shoulders. “Be my wing-man?”
Nicolai sighs and pulls open the door to Hank’s basement.
Peter turns to them with a wide grin, his face flushed and a little sweaty from the exercise. “This is pretty awesome. You guys have been holding out on me.” He laughs and flips onto the ceiling.
“No powers. Just fists,” Nicolai snaps his fingers and points to the blue mats below. Peter pouts and obediently drops down to the ground.
“Oh, before I forget. Gramps says he needs you to help dust a few corners of the house where the feather duster can’t reach,” Wade says as he steps onto the mat and cracks his knuckles.
“Seriously?” Peter eyes the both of them. Nicolai flexes his metal fingers and ties his hair back.
“Yup, you’ve gotta help hang Gramp's Christmas lights too, sweetums. Told ya not to start crawling all over the ceiling like the little girl in The Exorcist.”
Nicolai cocks his head with a confused frown and Wade lights up delightedly. “Shit, I have got to introduce the horror genre to you, man. We’ve got a whole bunch of movies to catch up on.”
He smacks Nicolai’s shoulder with a playful fist. The Russian assassin heaves an audible sigh.
“Alrighty, baby boy. I’m ready to die between your thighs. Hit us with all you’ve got,” Wade turns his broad leering grin on Peter and bounces forward. Peter rolls his eyes, but he does grant Wade’s wish and ends up with his legs wrapped tightly around Wade’s neck and the ex-merc gasping for breath beneath him.
"I thought you said you were good at this, Wade," Peter laughs.
"Yeah...I am...very good at...going for...the kill...not very great...at keeping...things alive..." The man wheezes from between Peter's thighs. He should be mad at Wade for going easy on him, but Peter's too high on adrenaline to care at the moment.
“Say Uncle, Wade. I’ll let you go if you say Uncle,” He says breathlessly. Wade lets out a wheezing chuckle and digs his heels into the mats below. The teenager immediately loosens his legs and pulls back before the angle can break something in the man’s body.
“Uncle,” Wade says smugly in his ear, pinning Peter down on the mat with his entire weight. The teenager groans in dismay and tries to wiggle free. He freezes when he feels something hard and hot digging into his lower back. Peter’s face turns scarlet as a hot coils of heat unfurl in his belly. Wade chuckles and rocks his hips forward. “Careful there, bud, or I’m gonna unsheathe my katana all over that delicious-”
Then an icy cold rivet of water splashes down both their necks. The masked ex-merc jumps back with a surprised curse. Nicolai’s got an empty bottle of water in his metal hand, methodically shaking the last few icy drops in Peter’s stunned red face.
“There’s lots where that came from,” He says in a monotone, pointing to the mini-fridge in the corner of the room.
Peter buries his flaming face in the mat and tries his best to disappear into the floor.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Eighteen
Clark stirred awake to a voice snagging on the edge of his deep sleep.
Kara’s
, he realized, bright and insistent, threading through the city’s hum like a flare.
He didn’t move at first, feeling the weight across his ribs being so very warm and heavy in the best way.
Bruce.
His face turned into Clark’s chest. His breath slow and his mouth soft. The kind of sleep that Bruce would never let himself have when awake.
Clark always kept his hearing as tight as he possibly could to avoid crushing himself beneath the world's sounds, yet there were a few people that could always bleed through the filters he had set for himself.
Kara.
Ma.
And the man currently breathing against him whilst using him as a personal pillow.
Clark's eyes found Bruce's face and he let himself feel how the other man's breath ghosted the hollow beneath his collarbone, slow and calm.
Bruce's mouth was slack in sleep as his lashes casted small shadows on his face. One of his hands lay splayed over Clark’s sternum like it had anchored there on purpose, the weight of it feeling like home on Clark's skin.
Without thinking, Clark softened every sense he had around the sleeping man, he let the city dim and the world blur, until all he could hear was the rise of Bruce’s breath and the way, every fifth beat or so, his pulse synced to Clark’s like two metronomes deciding to agree. It was the most peaceful had felt in ages.
Then his phone buzzed under the pillow. He eased it free, careful not to jostle the body trusting him with his whole weight right now.
KARA:
CLARK
KARA:
pick up
KARA:
okay you’re ignoring me,
rude
KARA:
listen, for real this time
KARA:
Emil Hamilton ping. And the kid. Not smoke. A trail.
KARA:
Fortress. Now.
Adrenaline hit him like a tidal wave and the old rush of
go, move, fix it
lit up his nerves.
Panic clawed up his spine anyway, taking over, remembering.
Don’t let her down again, don’t be late again.
He did what Evelyn had taught him a few sessions ago:
name it, then breathe through it.
Fear.
Guilt.
Love
.
Inhale four breaths, hold and lastly exhale six.
The panic receded slowly and what remained was the steady drum against his palm: Bruce’s heartbeat, trusting him without even trying and anchoring him to the here and now.
Clark looked down and let himself have the indulgence of a minute. Maybe two. Not ready to leave the man on top of him.
The light came thin and golden through the blinds, laying a ladder of sun across Bruce’s throat and shoulder.
He looked younger asleep, the internal battlefield seemingly smoothed out of his face.
Beautiful.
It was unfair
, he thought,
how beautiful a man could be doing nothing but trusting Clark to hold him.
Something in Clark’s chest stretched toward him like a plant toward light.
He had not known how starved he was for this, the quiet pressed skin to skin and a body choosing him the whole night through.
The wanting wasn’t just
want
anymore. It was shape and gravity.
He recognized the word that rose and didn’t flinch at it:
Love.
Not the whole of it yet, but the momentum of it, the pull, the feel of falling for someone.
His thumb drifted along Bruce’s forearm and caught on a rather fresh mark, a pale pink curve of a glass shard having gone in and come back out.
The angle tugged a memory he didn’t want: a smoke-choked room and a shard Clark had pulled from Batman’s arm months ago. Same place. Same bite.
His mind reached, but he told it not to. Not now.
Don’t take this from yourself with a guess you can’t afford
.
He set the thought down like hot metal.
He bent to Bruce’s temple, caressing his face. “I have to go, baby,” he whispered and felt the way the endearment fit in his mouth like it had been waiting there forever. “I’ll be back. I promise.”
Bruce made a low sound, half protest and half surrender, and turned his face into the pillow with the softest smile stretching on his lips that Clark had ever seen.
The sight punched sweetness through him so hard it physically hurt.
He wanted to stay. He wanted to be the kind of man who could.
He tucked the sheet up over Bruce’s shoulder and set a full glass of water on the nightstand, then smoothed a curl back from his forehead because he needed to touch him one more time before he left.
He slid out of bed the way you leave someone you love, slow, sure and apologetic.
He put on his jeans and shirt, with the usual button he
always
missed and then remembered.
He stood in the doorway with his boots in his hand as he glanced back and felt the memory of last night unfurl like heat in his chest:
Bruce’s mouth going soft under his and the way he’d given Clark the reins and taken him. The sounds he’d made when trust won out over fear.
It woke something fierce and protective in Clark, the part that wanted to throw himself between Bruce and anything that could potentially ever hurt him.
The want was there, yes, it always was with Bruce. But over it, unmistakable: the strong pull to
protect
.
To carry this man carefully the way Bruce seemed to carry the whole cracked world and pretended it didn’t cut.
Eventually he moved, leaving the memories of last night behind him, floating down the manor's stairs soundlessly.
He texted Kara:
on my way. five minutes.
Clark hesitated and then crafted a second message, to Bruce this time and set it to send.
Sorry I had to go. Last night was...better than I have words for.
I owe you coffee and breakfast in bed and at least twelve more kisses.
I'll call later, I promise.
He took the back hall, the one that didn’t creak and slipped out the side door into an early morning cool enough to clean his lungs.
He paused under the eaves and listened.
Alfred in the kitchen with the radio low.
He lifted off only when he was clear of the windows, keeping it low until the trees swallowed him, then climbed altitude hard.
The air around him turned blue and thin as the city fell away and the world narrowed to wind and a direction only.
He reached for calm and found it and it felt like a tether.
Bruce’s scent still in his lungs. The smell of clean soap and the faintest echo of wine and chocolate threaded through the cold. His heartbeat snapped into focus anchoring him.
Beneath it, like a remembered song you can’t stop hearing, the way the scar on his forearm looked just like Batman's.
Duty pulled at him from the north.
Love pulled at him from a bed he’d just left.
Irritation pulled at him from the discovery he'd made before he left.
He let them all be true, let them all live in his chest without choosing one over the other and flew faster.
-
Bruce woke to absence next to him.
For a beat the room was only light and quiet and the shape of a pillow where a head had been.
His hand searched right, then left but he only found the cool hem of sheet there instead of the heat he had clinged to last night.
Confusion flared, but then the memory slotted in: Clark’s mouth so soft at his temple and the low apology he barely heard being drunk on sleep:
I have to go, baby, I’ll be back.
It should have steadied him. It did, but there was also something else that pricked under his breastbone.
So
that’s
how it feels
, he thought, half-wry and half-winded,
to wake to air where warmth had been.
He sat up and his body reported itself in a chorus as he leaned against the headboard. A pleasant ruin along his shoulders, a tender heat low in his hips and an old rib bruise made smaller by newer aches that felt, for once, like living instead of fighting.
The room held their echo, a sleeve on the chair, a glass of water on the nightstand and the faint clean scent of Clark on the pillow.
It softened muscles Bruce hadn’t noticed he was clenching.
His phone blinked, so he thumbed it open.
Sorry I had to go. Last night was...better than I have words for.
I owe you coffee and breakfast in bed and at least twelve more kisses.
I'll call later, I promise.
The smile that tugged at his mouth was small and unguarded, with the memory of the night returning, not as a montage but as sense memory. Raw and bright and impossible to look away from.
The way fabric gave away and Clark’s warmth pinning him just enough to make him feel safe, not cornered. Clean skin and stubble scraping his jaw.
The impossible calm in Clark’s voice as he checked in and then checked in again, like consent was a rhythm you kept rather than a door you opened once and forgot about later on.
Bruce remembered the first sound that left his own throat when Clark praised him, quiet and involuntary and how it unspooled a knot he’d been carrying since he was a boy.
You’re doing so well, baby.
He hadn’t known words could hold a man together.
He remembered Clark’s hands reading him: pausing at old damage, acknowledging it and moving on without flinching, without questioning. The slow stretch turning into trust and the way Clark bore down through his nerves with patience that bordered on reverence. How he kept Bruce right at that impossible edge without pushing him over it until Bruce asked. He remembered asking. He remembered Clark’s relieved breath against his throat when he did.
After that: flashes. The arch of his back and their fingers laced. A shoulder to bite when the world tilted and Clark adjusting instantly, finding the exact angle again like he’d been born to it.
Every time Bruce thought there was nothing left to give, Clark found another breath in him, another tremor, another soft, humiliatingly and honest sound.
He’d never been kept like that: adored without being indulged, ruined without being abandoned.
And when the room returned, Clark hadn’t moved away. He’d gone still with him, their foreheads pressed and then handled the ordinary things like they mattered: water, a cool cloth, blankets tugged up.
A kiss to his wrist. A
you’re okay
breathed against his mouth that quieted the static more than sleep. Bruce had settled on Clark’s chest because there was nowhere else to put his head that made sense, and the steady drum under his ear did what morphine and money and missions never had. It made him quiet.
A measured knock, three taps, brought the room back into center and tore Bruce out of his thoughts . “Enter,” Bruce called.
Alfred slid in with a tray and a weather report he knew Bruce didn’t bother to read.
His glance took in the room’s evidence and returned to Bruce’s face with polite neutrality. “Good morning, sir.” A beat. “I take it Mr. Kent has already left.”
“He has.” The answer pinched as it left his mouth, but the memory of Clark’s promise,
I’ll be back
, softened it.
Alfred set the coffee down, the steam threading the cool air around it.
“Master Richard handled the east-side situation without incident. No messages from Commissioner Gordon. Gotham, for once, chose sleep.” He squared the tray an unnecessary fraction.
Bruce stared at the coffee steam a second longer, then flicked his gaze to the grandfather clock. 09:14.
“Has Dick eaten yet?” he asked, casual.
Alfred’s answer came smooth, but there was a thread under it. “I’ve not seen Master Richard since his rotation, sir.” A short pause. “I’m sure he’s just sleeping the night off. I’ll go check on him soon.”
The butler turned as if to go, then paused in the door frame. “I don’t wish to intrude,” he said lightly, which actually meant:
I shall intrude precisely this much and maybe more
, “but may one assume Mr. Kent will be...visiting again soon?”
Bruce glanced at the room, creased sheets, a shirt on the chair and the faint clean scent on linen and let the smallest smile stand.
“I’m sure he will,” he said.
Alfred inclined his head, approval neatly folded into propriety. “Very good, sir.” The door closed with the soft finality of a blessing.
Left alone, Bruce leaned back and closed his eyes. Worry prowled the edges, Clark leaving in a hurry wasn’t like him.
But the message in his hand glowed steady: I’ll call later, I promise.
For once, he let faith be a muscle he used. He breathed in what Clark had left and allowed a single reckless commit:
Don’t give up on me, Clark Kent. I’m learning how to stay.
-
Clark touched down at the Fortress with a bakery box balanced on one palm and powdered sugar on his sleeve.
Three dozen donuts in his hands. Maybe it was bribery, maybe an extended apology, maybe it was fuel? Who knows.
The place looked caffeinated: empty energy drink cans glittered everywhere between crystal spires, notes crumpled up all over the floor.
Krypto trotted over, his tail making a lazy metronome and leaned his whole weight against Clark’s shin with a sleepy huff.
Odd.
“Hey, what’s up,” Clark said, his voice warm and guilty at once. “Sorry I’m late. I had to...
carry
my car a few blocks. Gotham parking is a war crime, actrually.”
Kara zipped past him in a blur of hoodie and messy bun, then doubled back, eyes bright and more than a little wild.
“Donuts!” She kissed his cheek, grabbed a maple bar and pointed it at the holo-map. “Okay, listen. I think I found Emil.”
Clark set the box on a crystal ledge and moved beside her. “Tell me.”
She flung windows into the air: terrain maps, thermal overlays and shipping logs.
“Remember that guest lecture he gave me sophomore year? He wouldn’t shut up about ‘Phase Zero’ infrastructure. Old federal weather relays, NOAA bunkers, ham radio sidebands how '
if you ever wanted to disappear, you piggyback on the skeleton no one turns off'
.”
Clark nodded, Emil had loved the romance of obsolete systems.
“I cross-reffed that with his grant history, then lease records for ‘hydroponic seed storage’ in the Blue Ridge.” She stabbed a glowing dot. “This site in LA pulls steady cryo-line wattage, got three diesel drops this month, and just received a ‘nutrient gel suspension medium’ shipment,
the same
reagent from those buried LexCorp POs you found. The paperwork’s signed ‘E. Harlan,’ but the signature hash is Emil’s old STAR keypair. He didn’t scrub as well as he thought, not for people who actually know him.”
Clark felt the world narrow in a useful way, the word Los Angeles triggering something in his head he can't quite place yet. “It fits him and them.”
Kara chewed, still vibrating. “Also? Sideband transmissions at 2 a.m. near Los Angeles on the
exact
frequency he bragged about using. He left a breadcrumb because he can’t help being clever.”
Clark smiled despite himself. “You did all of this last night? You did good, Kara."
“Tell that to my adrenal glands,” she muttered, tossing an empty can of energy toward a recycling chute and missing by a foot. Krypto thumped his tail once, then trotted back to Kara, laying down by her feet.
A flicker on a console clock caught Clark’s eye.
It was late, at least later than he meant. The thought of Bruce rose up and Clark’s chest softened. “Give me two minutes?” he said. “I should call someone.”
Kara’s look turned sly and gentle at once. “I’ll...go pretend to hydrate, I guess.”
He stepped to a quieter alcove and hit Bruce’s name. It rang twice until he picked up.
“Clark, hey.” Bruce’s voice sounded smooth and deep in his ears, his heart did a little jump.
“Hey.” He winced at how fast the words tumbled out of him. “I’m sorry I left like that. My cousin had...well- an emergency with her…dog and-”
A bark echoes through the fortress at that, then Kara’s voice ricocheting off crystal walls. “Shut up, dog! Not now, I have to think."
Clark shut his eyes, pinching the back of nose sighing. “And I am also sorry for...
that
.”
A soft laugh traveled down the line, warmer than Bruce let most people hear. “I’m not mad, Clark. It’s all right. It’s...kind, actually. Helping family.”
Clark turned deeper into the hall, where the air hummed and no one would overhear him being ridiculous.
“Thanks. I still wish I could've stayed. There’s nothing in the world I’d rather do than wake up next to you, especially after last night.”
Heat crept up his neck even as he said it. He could almost feel Bruce’s smile on him.
“Well,” Bruce murmured, his voice dipping, “you do know how to charm someone now, don’t you, Kent.”
Clark huffed a laugh. “I try. Limited skill set: writing, cooking, and apparently... that.”
“I can confirm your...
skill set
,” Bruce said, dry and fond at once. “And for the record, you didn’t owe me an explanation. It's okay, really.”
“I wanted to give you one.” Clark leaned a shoulder to the cool crystal, letting the warmth in his chest settle.
“Last night mattered a lot to me.” He admitted.
Bruce's breath hitched on the other end, small and betraying more than the words that followed. “It mattered to me, too.”
Clark closed his eyes. The hum of the Fortress fell into the background, replaced by the steady and human cadence of Bruce’s breathing in his ear. He let his hearing stretch, finding his heartbeat in mere seconds. It made him smile.
Another distant bark, Krypto's tiredness slowly turning into insanity.
Clark winced. “I guess that’s my cue.”
“I gathered,” Bruce said, amusement threading through the words. “Go be a good cousin. And Clark... I’m glad you called.” Bruce paused and his voice came back softer, his own very version of reckless. “I- i miss you.”
“I miss you too, Bruce” Clark’s voice softened. “Talk soon?”
“
Soon
.”
The line clicked off.
Clark stood there a beat longer, smiling like an idiot at his reflection in the crystal, then pocketed the phone and jogged back toward Kara and the mess they were going to untangle together.
Kara reappeared in a blur, balancing a tablet in one hand and two glazed donuts in the other like a waitress on a time limit.
“All right, Emil the Enigma,” she said, bumping the pastry box against Clark’s elbow. “Round two, let's go.”
They fell into their rhythm, their shoulders nearly touching as lines of data scrolled.
Shipping routes, dummy LLCs and power draws that didn’t match their invoices. Kara’s fingers flew, cross-referencing sideband pings with procurement logs and Clark’s eyes narrowed on guard rosters that “didn’t exist,” which meant they
definitely
did. Every overlap tightened the circle and every absence felt like a clue.
They got closer in vicinity, but couldn't ping down a concrete location just yet.
The alert hit like a pane of glass shattering around them, as their eyes met the screen in front of them.
—PRIORITY FIVE JL ASSEMBLE—
BATMAN:
ROBIN MISSING ON PATROL. KIDNAPPED. MESSAGE FROM RA’S/QUINZEL/ISLEY/HAMILTON: “YOU’LL FIND HIM WHERE EVERYTHING BEGAN” EMERGENCY SESSION. WATCHTOWER NOW.
Kara went very still. The donut in her hand hovered, forgotten, a glaze-sugar starburst falling to the floor. “Robin,” she breathed. Just his name, stripped and bare.
Clark’s chest cinched. He snapped the pastry box shut with a decisive click that sounded too loud in the crystal hall. “We go,” he said, already standing. "Now."
Kara nodded, once, sharp.
The mask of mission slid over her features, but it couldn’t hide the crack of worry underneath. “I have to call Wally,” she muttered, voice tight as she tucked the tablet under her arm. “If I don’t, he’ll, ugh, kill me somehow. And then he’ll run to Gotham without shoes, I just know it.”
“Kara.” Clark touched her shoulder, light and anchoring. “We’ll find him, I promise.”
“I know,” she said, and the way her mouth trembled for half a heartbeat said she believed him because she needed to.
Krypto lifted his head from a nest of blankets, his tail thumping once then twice, questioning. Kara crouched mid-stride, palm skimming his ears. “Hold the fort, big guy,” she whispered, kissing his forehead. “Guard my energy drinks, okay? That’s your sacred duty.”
The dog huffed, resigned, and flopped back down, sleep finally taking him.
They launched together and the Fortress fell away in a rush of silver and blue.
As the air thinned and the world curved gentle and indifferent beneath them, Kara kept pace at Clark’s side, her jaw set and her eyes bright and furious.
He could hear her heart beating a half-step faster than usual, fear and affection braided into a single rhythm. She glanced over once, and something steadied between them that didn’t need words.
Above the atmosphere, the Watchtower burned like a star. It was as much home as it was a courtroom and a war room. Clark tightened his grip on the donut box tucked against his ribs.
It was ridiculous, yes, but suddenly it felt like an oath: something sweet held stubbornly in the bitter night awaiting them.
-
Bruce ended the call but didn’t move, the phone still warm against his palm.
In the background, a woman’s voice had cut in, quick and bright in a way Bruce found familiar. It was edged with that battlefield focus only a handful of people carried. A timbre he’d heard before through encryption and static, but as he reached for the name and he came up empty. He filed it away for later.
He showered, the water loud enough to bury the part of his brain replaying
I’d rather wake up next to you
in Clark’s voice.
Then: clothes, clean lines. Taking control by inches.
On the way to the cave he knocked at Dick’s door. Two knuckles in routine. “Up in twenty,” he said, already turning. No answer.
He’s tired. Let him sleep. He deserves it.
The cave swallowed him with its old cold. He went to inventory without thinking and the sight hit him like a punch: The ROBIN-MK IV slot was empty. Not checked out. Not in maintenance.
Just-
gone.
Bruce's pulse spiked, as he thumbed the comm. “Robin, location report.
Now
.”
Static hissed back.
He didn’t wait.
He took the stairs two at a time, crashing through the door into Dick’s room. A made bed. A latched window. An abandoned towel slung careless over a chair and the open drawer where the domino mask lived when Dick pretended he was done for the night. A little life and
none
of him in it.
Panic didn’t make noise in Bruce.
It constricted.
His hands went cold and his jaw locked until he tasted iron on his tongue.
Alfred appeared in the doorway, a tray in his hands falling to the floor, seeing before asking.
“He’s not here,” Bruce said, too flat. “Suit’s not racked. He didn’t answer. He-”
Alfred’s pause hurt to look at. “Commissioner Gordon?” Bruce shook his head.
“I’ll call Barry,” Bruce forced out, his airways narrowing. “If he’s with Wally-”
Alfred’s face shifted, a small, precise break. “He would have called, sir. Especially after-” A breath. “After Master Jason.”
Something in Bruce lurched like a missed step on black ice. Nausea rose sharp in stomach, as he swallowed hard. It sat like acid in his throat. “Cave,” he said. “Now.”
Halfway down the stairs the buried alarm ripped through stone, one cold note you only heard when the world went wrong and someone had weaseled their way into the cave's security system.
The main screen seized control and lit them in hard blue. A video window bloomed, Cadmus wrappers wrapped around it like barbed wire.
Harleen Quinzel leaned into frame first, her lipstick smudged and her smile way too bright to be anywhere near sane.
“Hiya, Batsie,” she chirped, and it sounded like a woman trying not to scream.
Ivy stood behind her, her arms crossed and her green eyes flat.
Between them:
Dick.
On a metal chair, his wrists and ankles bound tight enough to bite. Blood dried at his temple and a fresh line at his mouth.
He was holding himself tall through pain and restraint both, his chin set and a gaze so very angry and alive. That defiance, God, Bruce’s vision narrowed to a tunnel.
His son.
Emil Hamilton slid into the light, the lab coat he wore hanging wrong on a man who had once said that science lets us run with gods. His eyes were clear, pupils dilated and tired.
“Batman,” he said, like a lecture had started. “Time is short.”
“Get to it,” Bruce said. He didn’t recognize his own voice, it sounded like the cave speaking.
Hamilton tapped off-camera. A map snapped open in the corner: all rail spurs and dry land.
“You’re looking in all the wrong places, eating our dust. The prototype is unstable outside specific resonance. He will seek it.” A fingertip to the red pin. “You’ll find the boy where you find him. Where everything began.”
Harley leaned in with a finger-wiggle. “Chop-chop, Batsy. The kids don’t do well in cages, don't they?” The smile never touched her eyes.
Hamilton added, gentle as a scalpel, “We didn’t choose our patrons. You of all people understand that.” The feed cut.
Silence hit the cave like a drop from a great height.
The cooling fan ticked. Somewhere water in the far cavern dripped.
Inside Bruce, something old and barely scarred ripped open.
You left him.
You set a table.
You enjoyed yourself.
The memory of a crowbar’s laughter and a warehouse too far away and a boy he’d carried home in his arms because there was no other way to bring him back tangled with the present.
He wanted to vomit.
He wanted to put his fist through the console.
He wanted to rewind five days and tell the League the goddamn truth about the hair strand, about Luthor’s DNA braided through the boy’s, about the way secrets metastasize.
He wanted Clark, he craved him in this moment of panic and fear.
He wanted a thousand impossible things and none of them mattered because Dick was gone now.
Alfred’s hand touched his shoulder. One firm second like an anchor on a cliff. “Sir,” he said, steady through the crack in his voice. “I think it’s time to contact your...super-friends.”
Bruce looked at him, hating himself so cleanly it felt antiseptic.
He had lied to the one man who should never have been lied to about this and now his son was a hostage in a game he’d helped set.
He nodded once because nodding was the only movement that didn’t feel like breaking and turned to the keyboard.
His fingers shaking uncontrollably, he typed.
—PRIORITY FIVE JL ASSEMBLE—
BATMAN:
ROBIN MISSING ON PATROL. KIDNAPPED. MESSAGE FROM RA’S/QUINZEL/ISLEY/HAMILTON: “YOU’LL FIND HIM WHERE EVERYTHING BEGAN” EMERGENCY SESSION. WATCHTOWER NOW.
He sent it and the alert tore into orbit.
He started ripping the Cadmus wrappers apart line by line, hunting reflections in Harley’s pupils, counting breaths in the audio for body count off-camera, anything,
anything
, that gave him purchase.
If I lose another son because I couldn’t open my mouth.
That thought was a blade he deserved. He let it cut. Then he set it down, because there was work.
“Bring him home,” Alfred said.
“I will,” Bruce meant to say.
What came out was breath.
He bent to the screen with the kind of focus that had kept him alive when he didn’t want to be and let the self-hatred burn down to something he could use.
-
The Watchtower felt like it was holding its breath, the tension in the room thick enough to be cut by a knife lifted into the air.
Batman stood at the main console, his cape parted and his gauntlets braced while maps and telemetry crawled across the screens in cold light.
Kara rattled off what she’d found and Clark added the sideband pings and the rerouted freight. Batman folded in his own hits: warehouse shells, Ra’s drop points, Ivy’s decoys until all the lines knotted over the warehouse in Los Angeles where they had first encountered Ra's months ago.
They worked tirelessly on a plan.
“Flash.” Batman didn’t look up. “Any word from Kid Flash on Robin?”
Barry’s reply came too fast and too thin, serious in a way that ws completely out of character for him, even in situations like these.
“No. I told Wally to stay put.” He couldn’t find stillness as one knee vibrated and his hands wouldn't stop fidgeting. “It was...not easy. They're best friends. He wants to run until he finds him.”
A swallow. “I told him I’d be the legs. He stays home this time.”
Batman’s only answer was a clipped nod that somehow read as
thank you
and
I hate this
at once.
Around the room, everyone showed the strain in their own way as their planned tirelessly how to infiltrate and win this time.
Dinah stood opposite Ollie at the perimeter of the holo-table.
The Arrow had opened his mouth twice so far to crack something flippant and twice he'd swallowed it, his jaw flexing. Dinah's fingers found Ollie's forearm for a brief squeeze as she steadied both herself and him. "On your mark, I'll run point on breaching, sound first, then hands second. No one hears us until they have to."
"I'll spiderweb the perimeter. Eyes on every exit and service road, every tree line. No engagements until you say so, Batman." Barry added.
Aquaman was stillness in person, his arms folded and his gaze cutting from floodplain contours to drainage channels.“That marsh is a maze. I’ll ride the water table,” he said plotting. “If they try to use the culverts, I close them. If they try to use the river, I turn it against them.” A short nod to Batman. Warrior to warrior, in a way. A promise understood.
Diana stood sure.“We split into two spears,” she said, her voice that quiet command everyone obeyed even when they thought they wouldn’t. “Batman, Superman, Supergirl. You go straight down the throat. I’ll anchor the second team with Canary and Arrow for the flanks. Flash runs the net. Arthur locks the water. We bring them home.” As she passed behind Batman, her hand settled once on his shoulder. It wasn’t comfort. It was oath.
Clark took all of it in. The voices, the stances and the...
chemosignals.
The scent cut through: clean soap and the warm edge of skin he knew better than he had any right to.
No.
His hearing sharpened without asking permission. His senses taking over, reaching out.
His heartbeat: solid forty-eight at idle, rising to eighty-seven when Kara said Emil.
His breath: measured and shallow at the top.
The tiny creak of leather when a gloved hand closed too hard.
The cadence of a voice that dragged its consonants the exact way Bruce did when he was playing polite.
No. No, it can’t be-
He looked up at Batman and the world rethreaded itself in an instant. The way he carried pain inside him.
The tilt of his head when he listened like he already knew the ending. The scent. The heartbeat. The chemical trace that Clark had followed across a city and into a bed.
A wave hit so hard his knees went light for a moment.
His mind tried to throw up walls:
You’re wrong. You’re projecting. You’re-
The scar.
This morning at the manor.
The a pale pink, crescent mark along Bruce’s forearm.
Weeks ago, right there in LA, the exact same shard he'd pulled from Batman’s arm, slick with blood.
The exact same place.
The exact same curve.
Every time he’d smelled Bruce when there was no reason, when he thought grief or want was playing tricks,
every time
he’d felt like Bruce was right there beside him in the smoke or the dark-
He had been
. Bruce had been there because Bruce was
him.
The cowl didn’t hide the blue eyes behind them.
Not from Clark. Not anymore.
He knew those eyes, he
loved
those eyes.
Panic surged in Clark, fast and bright.
Does he know?
Could he possibly-
The room tipped, then steadied because he forced it to.
He named five things he could see.
The green pulse on the map, Kara’s braid half-loose from an all-nighter, a scuff on Barry’s boot, a hairline crack on the upper-left display and the way Batman’s fist flexed once and stilled.
Four things he could feel. The seam of the console, the weight of the protein bar in his pocket he brought for Kara, the thrum of the station under his boots and the coin of sweat cooling at his spine.
Three he could hear. J’onn’s slow inhale, Diana’s sword settling and Bruce’s heart trying to stay even and failing.
Two he could smell. The donuts left untouched somewhere and rain ghosting on his cape.
One he could taste. Iron. He'd bitten his lip.
Focus, Clark.
There was Robin-
His memory snapped to the foyer at the manor: Dick’s easy grin and his careful courtesy, the quick, proud spark in Bruce’s eyes when he said
son
like it was armor and prayer both.
Dick.
Jesus.
The curse flared and vanished.
A kid’s life on the line. Two, if he counted the boy with a spray-painted S and bruises everywhere.
And Batman,
God
, Bruce was vibrating with contained fear.
Under the armor and the legend and the breath control, Clark could hear it. He could feel it. The same man who’d fallen asleep with his face tucked against Clark’s chest was
here
, pretending to be made of stone while something inside him clawed for air.
Clark met Bruce's eyes and looked past the cowl because he could, because he refused not to now. Blue eyes and a beautiful haunted face looked back.
Familiar.
Impossible
His.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t let a single thing show. He just watched as the other man worked.
Stress came off him in layers: the dry and sour edge of cortisol,
then the sharp, electric bite of adrenaline and the copper-thin thread of old blood under antiseptic. The heat-sweat salted with lactic fatigue and beneath all of it was a second note that Clark had learned to recognize in battlefields and hospital corridors: the burnt-sugar tang of grief when it gets shaken awake.
Not fear of failing a mission.
Not even fear of dying. A narrower, crueler terror.
The fear of losing a son.
The realization hit as cleanly as the rest right into place with the heartbeat, the voice and the scar.
It reframed the tightness in Bruce's shoulders, the way his breath kept catching at the top and the tiny tremor that ran through the gauntlet before he stilled it. This wasn’t Batman calculating odds. This was a father holding himself together by force.
Clark knew now and he let the knowing settle in him like a shard of kryptonite locked in a lead box.
Cataloged, contained and not touched.
The heartbeat, the scent and the cadence of a voice that had steadied him in two lives lined up too neatly to ignore, but saying it out loud would break something,
someone
, that couldn’t be put back.
Bruce would bolt.
Bruce always bolts when cornered.
So Clark stepped back figuratively and decided to shoulder the weight for both of them.
He would carry this secret until the ground under them could bear it; he would not pry, not force and he would never risk losing the man he was already trying to protect. For now, he shut his mouth and steadied his breathing, and chose silence as a kind of shelter. He could carry this.
For him.
For Bruce.
“- at the managerial tract,” Batman finished his sentence, his voice level. “There are service tunnels under the east spur.”
Diana's voice came out even. “Then that’s our route. We get them both. Fast.”
Across the console, Batman’s jaw flexed once. A nod.
Ollie's tone rang clear. “Positions, people. Now.”
Clark stepped to the pad beside Batman and Kara. He didn’t reach for the truth burning his mouth. He reached for the mission instead, and for the vow that had already taken root behind his ribs.
Find Dick. Find the boy. Bring them home.
And when it’s over...
If I still get to keep you, I’ll tell you I know.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
When my wife fails to return to me within a day I begin to worry and roam Riften in a state of agitation as I await her return or some news of her. My worrying is only slightly helped by the Khajiit's friends such as Mjoll, Ingun, and Grelka all assuring me that the Khajiit is fine and that my worrying is overdone. Their words of comfort are less reassuring by the second day, and by the third day the Khajiit's friends are no longer so sure of the woman's safety.
A small group of volunteers, led by Mjoll and their ranks filled mostly by inexperienced townsfolk and volunteers, leaves on the fourth day of the Khajiit's absence with the intent of finding her. I'd tried to go with the group, but Mjoll herself had urged me to stay behind in case what they found was too upsetting for me. All the group ended up returning with is the Khajiit's dehydrated and hungry destrier with the horse showing no sign of injury or pain.
The creature was tied outside the cave where the Khajiit was sent to hunt the vampire. The cave itself was a small, dark hole in the side of a mountain empty save for some old bloodstains and bones from both beast and man. No sign of the Khajiit or the vampire she was hunting. The only reason they knew the Khajiit had been there was the horse himself being tied outside and a few footprints leading into the cave which presumably belonged to the Khajiit.
A few more groups are sent out over the course of the next few days with nothing found. Eventually, Maven herself is forced to recall everyone and formally announce the Khajiit hero is missing. Rumors abound and word is spread to all settlements across Skyrim by both bird and messenger with all return answers confirming the Khajiit hasn't been spotted anywhere since her departure from Riften. I'm soon an inconsolable, sleepless mess of a woman unable to be comforted by anyone.
I spend the days awaiting any news of the Khajiit and the nights in a sleepless fit in the bed I was supposed to be sharing with my wife. I use the gold the Khajiit and I have been saving to hire a bounty hunter who was able to track the Khajiit high into the mountains southwest of Riften until the weather and terrain erased her trail from existence. The man has the good grace to return a majority of the gold I paid him to find my wife with a few words of condolences.
The man's tracking renews some interest in finding the Khajiit with a few sparse groups occasionally heading off into the mountains only to return frostbitten and empty-handed. I make a few trips with Mjoll by my side only to end up as lost and hopeless as everyone else who tried looking for the Khajiit. It's only after the Khajiit has been missing for three months and I'm preparing for a twenty-fifth trip into the mountain when Mjoll dares to question the safety and futility of my actions.
An argument sparks between us that ends with both of us sobbing and mourning. Neither of us return to the mountain where my love was last seen, and no more search parties go out. Slowly, whispers begin that the Khajiit has died in some place far away from civilization where her body will never be found. I can do little to argue against the rumors and, slowly, find myself waiting in the town square for news of the Khajiit less and less.
I only stop all together when a letter from Maven arrives offering condolences and a hefty sum of gold given the Khajiit died in service of Riften and because of Maven's direct orders. The pitying, saddened looks of the townsfolk, especially from those who knew the Khajiit on a personal level, is soon too much to bear. I find myself more and more isolated and I refuse to leave the home where the Khajiit and I were meant to live in wedded bliss.
I get good at buying supplies in bulk that last for long periods of time and minimize the amount of time I have to be around other people. I'm soon left completely alone in a torture of my own making as I struggle to both accept the loss of the Khajiit as well as the fact her body will most likely never be recovered. Mjoll and the rest of the Khajiit's friends attempt to stop by and pull me from my isolation, but they can only come by so many times and knock on the door for so long before they give up.
Six months after I married the Khajiit, I'm finally able to stay in our home without anyone coming by to interrupt me. I leave the lights out and move through what was supposed to be our sanctuary with clouds of dust kicking up in my wake. Whatever food and drink I've gotten has been preserved and stored so well that I'm free to remain all day and night in the home with no need for leaving. I'm even able to empty the chamber pots through a window out back to truly eliminate any need for the sunlight to grace my skin.
I'm left to live the shell of a life without the woman I love by my side. All I have left of her are my memories that, as the days go by, begin to erode and fade even as I desperately cling to them. I spend the entirety of the days remembering the Khajiit as she was and praying to deaf Divines that her body returns to me, and I spend the entirety of the nights in endless nightmares where I chase after the Khajiit only to have her blow away like ash when I reach out to touch her. My life would have continued like that indefinitely if not for a scratching at my door almost eight months after the Khajiit disappeared.
I'm not sure what draws me to answer the door when I've ignored so many other attempts at getting me to. I'm not sure whether it's because the person is at the back door instead of the front, the fact it's the middle of the night instead of daytime, or the fact whoever's at the door is scratching like some feral wild cat. I yank the back door open intending to scream at whoever's there to leave, but the individual I see on the other side causes the curses to die in my throat.
In this moment, my wife has never looked more depraved or dreadful. My love is still wearing her thick, plate armor she had on at our wedding with a mixture of viscera and forest debris caked on it. The only piece missing is the helm that she was so insistent she never take off. Instead, her mane has grown thick and wild in its absence with both branches and blood tangling it into a wadded matt.
My wife herself is in a similar state of filth and rot with blood, rotten chunks of flesh, and mud staining her face and neck with more twigs and thorns tangled in her pelt to the point her once pristine snowy fur is now a mixture of grey and brown. My love, seemingly shocked at me yanking the door open so quickly, takes a step back which lets the moonlight roll over her face and reveal more details that make my heart begin to speed.
Bulging, scarlet eyes lock on to me with far too much intensity as a pale, dry tongue laps across teeth more fit for a sabre cat than a Khajiit. My wife looks at me with far more hunger than love as her right hand comes up to my face. I'm almost fooled into leaning in and waiting for her touch until I see long, freshly sharpened claws are now bursting through her chainmail gauntlets. Instinctively, I take a step back which the Khajiit matches. I take another step backwards and realize my mistake too late as the Khajiit takes another step and is fully inside our home. Her hand is still reaching from me as she whispers incomprehensible nonsense at me.
"
Ahhhhh
-.". Clumps of dirt and flesh fall from the Khajiit's mouth as I realize her eyes are trained solely on my neck. A scream is rising in my throat when the Khajiit's eyes begin to roll wildly around, and her next step forward turns into a shamble. I dodge to the side as the larger, heavier woman goes careening into the table beside our bed. Hisses of frustration and rage fill the air as the vampire struggles to right herself and becomes tangled in the bedsheet I had haphazardly tossed on the floor beside the bed at some point. With her ankles tangled and still uncoordinated, my wife lunges for me only to end up
thumping
to the ground in a spitting mess.
The dangerous, ferocious beast my wife has turned in to looks up at me with eyes promising revenge as she struggles to push herself up off the ground. More hisses and snarls fill the air as the Khajiit seems to be unable or unwilling to undo the sheet wrapping her legs together in favor of repeatedly attempting to rise only to end up solidly
thumping
back down to the ground. I watch in a state of shock and horror as what was once my wife very slowly concedes to gravity and ends up a panting, exhausted mess on the floor.
Her eyes and the snarl on her face promise death even as it becomes clear the vampire who returned to me is far too young and feeble to actually do anything. Whatever the Khajiit has been through, it's left her in such a weakened state I have no doubt I could subdue her with little effort.
You should be calling for the guards to kill this monster.
My heart twists in agony at the thought of doing so even as I acknowledge it would be the "correct" thing to do. Some part of me can't stand the thought of being both responsible not only for the Khajiit's death but also responsible for the fact she'll go from "missing hero" to "monster that needs to be destroyed on sight". It's such a cruel thing to not only kill someone but to likewise kill all they were and what they stood for.
I should be calling for help or, at the very least, finding something to slit the Khajiit's throat with. Instead, I find myself slowly walking backwards towards the chest at the foot of our bed. I keep my eyes focused on the Khajiit just as she keeps hers focused on me. The ropes inside were meant for more pleasurable endeavors with the Khajiit; still, they're all I have to confine her at the moment.
The vampire surges with her last bit of strength as she sees me coming at her with the ropes. She manages to go a full foot upwards before crashing back down. A few weak, quiet snarls come from the woman's mouth as I tie wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle. Finally, I bring a few cords up to the Khajiit's fanged mouth. She snaps at me and gives me the perfect opportunity to shove the makeshift gag into place. My wife gives a few experimental chews on her gag before it becomes clear the rope is too thick for her to bite through anytime soon.
Defeated, the woman slumps to the ground and finally allows her bloodshot eyes to close. I'm left standing above my feral, vampire wife tightly bound and at my mercy. In a mixture of panic and fear, I begin to drag the armored woman towards the stairs by her legs and, eventually, down into our basement. The Khajiit offers hisses of pain and snarls of anger as her head solidly
thunks
on every step on the way down. Once we're safely there, I drop the Khajiit's legs and can only find one question running through my mind.
What now?
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The dirt path we walk down is flanked on both sides by trees with wide canopies about twice as tall as a two story house. The sun shines down on us through the gaps in the leaves, making a nice, warm feeling of dimmed light.
We've been walking for a while now, and though not a word has been spoken, I'm not bothered by the silence.
Occasionally I see some wildlife, deer and rabbits mostly, but there was also a bear that didn't seem to want to get close to us. Well, it was probably Sukuna that scared it off, that guy gives off bad juju like he gets paid to.
I've also seen some new flowers! So that's cool too, I don't know what they're called, but they were such a vibrant shade of blue that I had to pick a few.
I even made a crown of flowers to wear, because they smelled nice too.
Sukuna didn't accept the flower crown I made for him. In fact, he seemed kind of disgusted by it.
It turns out that Minamoto's Technique:
Kindred Spirit
allows him to connect two 'cuts' together. Basically, he can swing a blade in one place, then swing a blade in another place, and create a portal connecting where the two blades cut.
He has a range limit, unfortunately, but we could still use his Technique to cut the travel time for this mission down a bunch.
As for the mission itself, well... I still have no idea what it is.
Sukuna doesn't feel like talking, so I've been keeping to myself. No need to rush him.
Maybe he's shy~.
Obviously not, but it's a funny thought, and I'll definitely tease him with it once we're closer, something I don't doubt will happen, simply because he's too interesting and I want to learn more about who he is.
All I know is that we're heading towards a small town, well, small to my sensibilities. It probably only has around a thousand people or something living there.
I only know that much because Minamoto had to know where to teleport us.
It would have been funny if he portal-ed us in the opposite direction, but I'm pretty sure Sukuna would have killed me if he did that.
Oh well.
Still, I haven't just been admiring the scenery on this walk, I've also been taking the time to train in Subtraction.
One of my Technique's biggest weaknesses is the brief time it takes to summon my Shikigami. If I can get it to the point that I don't need words or gestures to summon them, then that'd be great.
So I've been summoning and dismissing my Escape Rabbit over and over again as we've been travelling.
I haven't quite mastered it, but I got to the point where I can summon either with just the hand sign and no chant, or a chant and no hand sign.
The latter seems the most helpful, since it'll keep my hands unoccupied, but the former will undoubtably be best if I need to be sneaky for whatever reason.
However, while I have been training my Technique, one thing I've made sure not to do is summon either
Divine Dog: Totality
, or the latest result of power trickling down from
Lion's Pride's
demise.
Because I honestly feel like it's a good idea to keep as many tricks up my sleeve as I can, just in case Sukuna decides he wants to kill me before heading back.
He seriously is
not
a nice person. I don't think I can express enough with words how not nice of a person he is.
It's like, if you have a murderer on trial and say they're a horrible monster, then you get a serial killer on trial, then what are you supposed to say that's worse than horrible monster?
Just because the crime is worse, doesn't mean the lesser criminal is less of a horrible monster, but by calling them such, you run out of ways to describe anyone who is
worse
without just repeating yourself.
So basically, Sukuna is the single worse human I have ever met in my life, and likely will ever meet again. As a matter of fact, I'd say he's more of a Curse than a human, that much I can tell just from exposure.
If anything, he's more of a Curse than even Curses are, simply because he is also
human
.
He's so
interesting
.
Eventually however, we do reach the end of the forest trail at around evening time. As the trees clear up, we exit to the sight of a small settlement of wooden buildings built in the same design my mind still calls traditional Japanese, even though it's just normal now.
The streets are surprisingly bustling, lit up by the soft glow of lamps hung up all around, preparing for the approaching night.
Glancing to my side, I notice that Sukuna didn't even stop to take in the sight and just kept walking forward, his nose buried in one of my books.
Not that I gave it to him mind. I took it out of my shadow to read it, but then he just snatched it. He even cut my hand off when he did it, the prick.
Not that I'm really mad. If anything, I was just intrigued that there really was more to him than just hatred.
Plus I used the chance to try and regenerate my hand by myself, having realised that even if I do fuck it up, I can just cut it off again and have my deer do it for me.
Unfortunately however, it seems that regenerating limbs is a bit beyond me at the moment, so I did have to summon
Generous Deer
anyway.
I was really quick though, because I still can't take on my Shikigami's abilities without summoning them like I tried earlier and I didn't want him to kill my deer.
I might actually be upset if he did that, it's my favourite Shikigami. I am very bias for deer.
I also realised that since my lion is dead, I only have half my Shikigami slots filled now, but again, I don't want to start the ritual around Sukuna.
Shaking my head clear of useless thoughts, I speed walk my way back to Sukuna's side as we approach the settlement.
Absently, I note how the road through the town is all just dirt without any paving, the sight standing out to me alone. It makes me think back to my other life and realise that I'd never take note of a city road being made of tarmac or concrete or something grey like that, just like these people treat a dirt road as something so banal as to not even notice.
But to me, it's strange seeing so many people walking down a street of dirt. It's just one of those things you notice, a culture shock, I guess it's called.
Though, saying it's shocking feels like an overestimation. It's more like how if you're used to taking your shoes off or keeping them on when you're in your own house, then you tend to notice when you visit someone else and it's the opposite, while ignoring it if it's the same.
Basically just something that makes you go 'oh okay' and move on.
The point is, I'm smiling as we reach the entrance to the town, finding a man in a formal kimono standing to the side of the road waiting for us.
My sense of Cursed Energy tells me that he barely has any more than the average person, and my lessons with the old man tell me that he's probably a 'Window', the term for people with enough Cursed Energy to see Cursed Spirits, but not enough to fight them.
They are usually the people who report when and where Cursed Spirits are spotted to be dealt with.
A brief bit of history from the old man that I found interesting was that Windows used to actually not see too much use, because they only needed to keep an eye on low Grade Curses. This was because the Jujutsu world was content to just leave powerful Curses like Special Grades alone to their devices so long as they weren't causing too much trouble.
However, ever since Sugawara no Michizane started his one man crusade against Cursed Spirits, that is no longer the case. The problem is that Cursed Spirits don't truly die, at least not the normal way. The only way they can die is if they are well and truly forgotten.
So now there are a bunch of powerful Curses that are going to reincarnate randomly with no hint as to where or when. Because of this, Windows now have a much more important job of making sure everyone knows exactly when any powerful Curses are born and where they are as soon as possible.
It kind of makes me feel a bit bad for Michizane, since he was probably just trying to do a good thing, but now it's just going to cause even more problems down the line.
Oh well, I'm actually not that upset about it now that I think about it. After all, more problems down the line just means more opportunities for me to see interesting things.
"This one greets Sukuna-sama and Narauko-sama on behalf of the Fujiwara clan," the Window greets once we get close enough, bowing deeply. "By your will, I may inform you of what we have learned of the Curse present."
Why am I getting '-sama'-ed? I'm a forest child, not a noble. Maybe they think I'm an asshole like Sukuna and are just scared?
I'm only fifteen though. Even if they gave me that Special Grade rank, it's just because I have a lot of Cursed Energy, not because I'm particularly amazing.
I've only been in two fights now and they were both in the last week.
However, more than that, my attention is drawn to Sukuna as he looks over the town with blatant distain.
Where before, I got the feeling that Sukuna would kill me and everyone around him without a care, it always felt like something he would only do with a reason, even if the reason was incredibly thin, like not bowing when he walked past or something.
But when he looks out over these people, I feel a true, genuine
hatred
coming from him. His Cursed Energy is tumultuous, raging against his skin as if he is actively holding himself back from just killing them all.
I don't get
why
though. Why does he hate people so much? Why does he want to kill them all?
Why is he holding himself back?
"Narauko greets the aid of the esteemed Fujiwara clan," I return in greeting, since Sukuna would probably kill someone if he had to speak right now. Though, I don't bow. "What have you learned about this Curse?"
I'd like to have said something about being grateful for any information given, because that feels more polite, but the old man taught me that giving gratitude is a dangerous thing with nobles. Apparently if you apologise to, or thank a noble, they think it means you owe them or something.
Politics.
At least the Window seems pleased at my attitude, furtively stealing subtle glanced at Sukuna, the same way you would glance at a coiled snake just in case it lashed out.
"It is a Vengeful Cursed Spirit, Narauko-sama," the Window says with another bow, "In life, she was the wife to a local Samurai. However, she was adulterous while her husband was away fighting. He discovered this on his return and slit the corners of her mouth open as punishment. She then died and turned into a Vengeful Cursed Spirit. Its exact abilities are unknown to us, as everyone we've sent to investigate has died. It is likely Semi-Grade One at a minimum. The locals have started calling it Kuchisake-onna."
Seems like an overreaction to adultery to me, and for a second I get whiplash about how casually the Window retold the story.
It's just completely foreign to me that a man cutting his wife's mouth open like the Joker isn't even that big of a deal here. Hell, they'd probably be
more
scandalised if he just divorced her.
It's so weird. Though, it's kind of funny in hindsight that some people in the twenty first century fail to understand how much more peaceful the world is for them.
Sure there were, or will be? Still wars, but at least that Samurai would get sent to jail or something for mutilating his wife instead of just divorcing her.
Wait a minute... "What happened with the husband?" I ask, eyes alight with curiosity enough to ignore the strange look the other two gave me.
"I.. Don't know?" The Window asks more than states, caught flatfooted, "I assume he returned to his clan in the capital. May this lowly one ask why you wish to know?"
So he's not even going to get punished? Probably just made fun of by his friends or something.
"No reason," I wave him off, "I was just curious."
"Enough," Sukuna cuts in, his voice hard and full of poorly hidden bloodlust, whether that's directed at the Curse or the people, I couldn't say. Probably both. "Where is the Curse."
The Window immediately bows to Sukuna. "We have managed to confine it in the Samurai's compound to the north of the town, Sukuna-sama."
Sukuna doesn't say anything or nod any kind of acknowledgement to the Window, simply turning on his heel and walking north, tossing my book to the side as he does so.
Naturally, I catch my book before it hits the ground. These things aren't that sturdy like they will be in the future. I don't want to ink to smudge.
Putting my hands back in my sleeves, I deposit the book back in my shadow and give a shallow bow to the Window before hurrying my steps to catch back up with Sukuna again.
We get a lot of looks from the townspeople as we travel through the town, and it becomes clear to me that they know we are Sorcerers. It also becomes clear that they don't have a particularly high opinion of Sorcerers, even when we are here to exorcise a dangerous Curse for them.
It just makes me curious how other Sorcerers have acted in the past for them to be so distrustful.
Though, glancing over at Sukuna kind of answers that question. No one is willing to even get close to us, some primal part of their brain warning them that death will follow if they do.
Normal people can't consciously perceive Cursed Energy, but their subconscious still can. It's like that feeling you get when you enter an abandoned, spooky building, that unnatural chill.
Except in this world, I know for a fact that that feeling is not just mould or whatever making you hallucinate, but the effect of feeling Cursed Energy, even if you can't perceive it.
I also don't doubt for a second that their instincts are correct. If any of these people were to approach us, Sukuna would probably kill them before they can get to the second syllable of whatever they wanted to say.
The town itself is very reminiscent of Edo, just smaller. The only three story building being the Samurai's compound we are approaching, and though the place is too small to have it's own redlight district, I do spy a slightly larger building decorated with red lanterns.
Vaguely I remember some factoid about how Japan was one of the nations most accepting of prostitution as a part of society, though I'm not sure if that was just people on the internet spreading misinformation again.
It's hard to say.
Eventually however, my musings are cut off when we finally reach our destination.
The compound is rather large, a good two hundred metres or so wide at a guess, probably longer lengthwise, but I can't tell from this angle.
There is a wall about twice my height surrounding it, with what looks like archer towers on each corner and a big fancy gate with the same kind of roofing as all the other buildings.
The gate is closed, so I can't see the details inside, but I can see the rooves of the buildings, showing that there are three, one two story building on each side, and a three story main building at the far end in the centre.
Overall, it's an incredibly nice compound. Makes me think this Samurai guy is actually probably someone important. Or maybe houses like this just aren't that uncommon among nobility and the like.
Around the entire compound, there is also another barrier, except this one I cannot see with my eyes. It is only through my sense for Cursed Energy that I can even notice it, a faint but sturdy feeling barrier invisibly coating the entire place in a dome.
It doesn't feel like it would affect me in anyway, but I guess that makes sense, since it's probably designed with restraining Curses in mind, not Sorcerers.
hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, I turn my eyes away from the architecture to observe the approach of a middle aged man.
He has messy dull grey hair that looks more natural than a result of advanced age and a bland expression of disinterest on his face as he approaches.
Like Sukuna and I, he is wearing a kimono, except unlike us who are matching, except for my scarf, his is shaded with a pure black base that is covered with white and dark blue markings like that of a snake's skin.
It makes him look like how I imagine Yakuza would look honestly.
However, what is most interesting, and what draws my eye, is the strange tattoo-like markings over his mouth that I can just
tell
are Cursed Markings.
The man, in contrast to Narauko's interest, briefly falters as a pair of equally curious eyes bore down on him, greatly discomforting him.
"Sukuna. Narauko." The man begins, not even trying to be polite as his lifeless eyes move between us. "I am Inumaki Kotone, Grade One. I will be supervising this exorcism."
Sukuna looks like he's going to try and kill the guy for not putting any respect on his name, so I step forward and bow to Inumaki. "It is nice to meet you, Inumaki-san. Is there anything else, or shall we begin the exorcism now?"
He waves a hand at the compound. "No. Go ahead. I will be waiting outside the Curtain."
What's the point in being a supervisor if you're not even going to come and supervise? Naturally, I don't say that out loud, but still.
With that out of the way, I once again have to catch up with Sukuna, who has already started strolling for the gate, practically broadcasting his boredom through his Cursed Energy, a stark contrast to my own that is reflecting my excitement.
After all, I am about to see a Curse that's either Grade One or on the verge of it. I know that Special Grade among Curses isn't really the same as Sorcerers, so saying that a Grade One Cursed Spirit is the peak like with Sorcerers would be a lie.
But still, it's exciting.
Taira is technically a Grade One Sorcerer, but she's also a student like me, so I don't think she's
actually
at the level of Grade Ones yet, which means this should actually be pretty challenging.
I really can't wait. Tamamo and then Taira have made me want to experience that combat thrill again. I was never interested in violence before, but now I just really want to push myself.
It feels like... Like if you lie in one position for too long and want to stretch your leg, but can't fully straighten it.
Like having satisfaction within sight but out of reach.
Tamamo and Taira.. They just weren't strong enough, I'm starting to realise.
I hope this Curse isn't disappointing
.
We reach the gate together and I feel a faint whiff of Cursed Energy emanate from Sukuna, kind of like a spider's web in that you can easily miss it without light reflecting off of it.
And then the gate crumbles into pieces.
"So much for knocking," I mutter as we stroll through the remains of the gate, entering the court proper.
The edge of the court, where the buildings are, is lined with gardens of flowers, mostly blue and yellow, arranged in subtle patterns. Most of the court is just simple stone, but right in the centre is a large sakura tree that is unfortunately out of season, going by the empty branches.
Still, the sight holds my eye for a moment. I'm sure sakura trees are beautiful in bloom, but even still, the sight of the tree completely devoid of any petals is strangely beautiful in its own right.
I just can't help but admire it.
Standing there, barren of colour surrounded by blooming flowers like a corpse of what could be.
God I wish I had a camera.
Then I notice Sukuna moving forward through my peripheral vision and snap out of my daze, following after him at a sedate pace, preferring to enjoy the compound than rush.
As I walk, I spread out my senses and feel for Cursed Energy.
Far to the south I can barely make out the presence of the normal folk. Closer, there is about half a dozen Windows, each having barely more Cursed Energy than the normal people.
Then there's Inumaki, who stands out like a candle in the night.
But if Inumaki is a candle, then Sukuna in front of me is a raging inferno, almost blinding my senses entirely with how intense his presence is.
Even with him distracting me, I do manage to notice a bundle of Cursed Energy further ahead in the main building. Going by Sukuna's chosen direction, he probably senses it too.
Speeding up my pace a little bit, I overtake Sukuna before matching him, because I selfishly don't want him to kill the Curse.
We reach the front door and I slide it open with much more respect than Sukuna treated the gate, and walk inside, followed silently by my classmate.
The halls are a mess, with lines carved into the walls and broken shards of vases and other decorative items littering the floor. It looks like its been ransacked and left to rot, which might actually be true.
Or it is just the Curse.
Going by the cuts in the walls that still hold faint echoes of Cursed Energy, I think I can safely assume the Curse's main form of offence is likely a slashing type attack.
That would be more helpful information if I had some kind of counter to slashing type attacks, but I don't. At least it's still nice to know what to expect, though it also kind of ruins the surprise.
Hmm. Is it better to be prepared or surprised? I honestly couldn't say. That's a really difficult question for me.
My senses tell me we are close enough that I shouldn't be getting distracted, so I focus back on the world in time to come to a stop before another set of sliding doors.
On the other side is the Curse, and I'm pretty sure it has noticed our approach, even if it doesn't seem to be showing much aggression, which is very interesting.
Taking a deep breath, I slide the door open and step inside, Sukuna following behind me.
The room is simple with lots of space, as is pretty normal here. The flooring is a nice tatami wood and the wall on the right has a winding river painted on it.
On the opposite side of the room from the door, is an eight foot tall figure bent over a vanity case, it's long, greasy hair drapes over hunched shoulders even though the ceiling is high enough for it to stand straight.
Even as we stand there, the Curse doesn't respond to us. It just keeps muttering incomprehensible things to itself.
Sparing a glance at Sukuna shows that he is barely even paying attention, bored out of his mind.
Huffing in amusement, I turn back to the Curse and take a single step forward.
The
instant
my foot touches the ground, the world takes on a different hue and I suddenly know that I cannot take any violent actions right now.
It takes me a moment to figure out how this information just appears in my mind as true as anything else, and when I do I am shocked.
It's a Domain. The old man told me that Domain Expansion was the peak of Jujutsu Sorcery, and as I feel the barrier spring to life around us faster than I could hope to react, limiting my actions like a law of nature, I can't help but agree.
It feels so foreign. Like the world has been flipped upside down. It's
fascinating
to observe.
My eyes flick to Sukuna, who seems just as surprised as I am, but they quickly turn back to the Curse as it stands and faces us.
It's form is like that of a woman, a very tall woman, which is no surprise since it's a Vengeful Curse, dressed in a simple white yukata. But as it turns to face us, any possibility of mistaking it as anything but a Curse disappears.
Its hands hang by its sides, wrinkled and pale like a corpse's with long, uncared for nails coloured black and yellow from necrosis and puss, a sharp cooking knife held in one hand.
Its face is covered by a
gigaku
, a theatre mask shaped like the classic interpretation of an old witch's face. But the mask is also covered by its long hair, flowing down from its bowed head and all the way to the floor, obscuring most of the mask.
Disturbingly, the hair is covered in
eyes
that each look this way and that, as if they are each on their own psychedelic trip.
Truly, it is a scary, horrible,
disgusting
sight.
"Am I beautiful?" The Curse asks, its voice raspy and painful to listen to, and I just
know
that I have to answer. That I can't lie or even delay my response. I can only-
"Yes," I say without hesitation, ignoring the look I get from Sukuna.
The Curse seems oddly happy at my answer and raises its free hand to the mask it wears, grabbing it gently and pulling it away, brushing hair out of its face in the process as it turns up to stare right into my soul.
Its face is the thing of nightmares, with a still bleeding mouth cut too wide, showing a set of wicked fangs when it smiles at us. Its skin is pale and clammy, almost making me feel sick just looking at it, and its eyes are difficult to meet just from how
disgusting
it is.
Like all Curses I've seen so far, this thing is gross to look at.
"Even now?" It asks, and once again, I know I must answer honestly, that I can't lie-
"
Yes
," I breathe, the feeling of its domain softly brushing against my mind. "I have never seen a beauty like this before. I surely won't forget you, because you are truly
beautiful
."
The Curse's smile widens to disgusting proportions at my answer, and then the world cracks around us and shatters, the domain coming undone.
Without hesitating in the slightest, the moment I regain full control over myself from the rules of the domain, I gesture forward with my two forefingers.
Following my movement, my shadow lurches forward fast enough to blur, a spike of inky black shadow piercing through the Curse's head faster than it can react.
"You
were
beautiful," I mutter to the Curse as it fades away into nothing, successfully exorcised. "But you were also too weak."
Sighing to myself, I bring a hand to my chest and feel my heartbeat.
Steady as usual.
Another sigh leaves me at that.
I had hoped it would at least be as challenging as Taira.
Whatever, at least I got to see a domain. That was fun, not to mention rather enlightening. Now that I have a base to work from, I might be able to figure out my own domain, which would be
very
cool.
Cracking my neck, I turn to the side and am greeted to the sight of Sukuna intensely staring at the floor, right in the centre of the room. No, that's where the centre of the domain was that he is staring at.
I open my mouth to ask him if he's okay, only for my words to freeze on my lips as he suddenly seems to wake up and his Cursed Energy spikes like oil poured on a fire.
Slowly, or maybe I just imagine it in slow motion, I watch as Sukuna's face splits into a wide, bloodthirsty grin, his eyes alight with sadistic joy as he turns my way.
Ah fuck
, I think to myself.
That's not good
.
Yet even as I think that, I know that my smile soon grows to match his own.
A/N: He~llo! Dear readers!
Cliffhanger!!!! Muahahaha!
Remember that bit about Sukuna only behaving because he doesn't have a counter to domains yet? lmao.
I was honestly originally planning to keep Sukuna from developing a domain or anything like that for a while, planning future events and the like, but I caught myself. The whole point of this fic is basically "whatever happens happens", and I came up with a better idea anyway.
Hope you guys like it, and I also hope next chapter's fight scene isn't disappointing.
My
Patreon
if you wanna support me. 7 Chaps ahead rn I think, I'll post the next 2 publicly once I finish the next chap :P
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The sky was a soft shade of light blue and the blazing sun was directly over Childe and Zhongli’s heads as they strolled through the outskirts of Juyeon Karst. They had been walking since they ran into each other at Wamin eating an early breakfast when the sun had barely risen and found out they both had a day off. Childe eagerly asked Zhongli if they could take that walk and Zhongli accepted his request just as enthusiastically.
They had walked from Liyue harbor, through Dunyu Ruins, Tianqiu Valley, then Cuijue Slope, and were now just outside Jueyunjian. And Zhongli talked the
entire
time. Well, the entire time not counting Childe’s occasional question and comment about his lectures, as well as when Childe mentioned both the sample Zhongli gave Childe as he was too embarrassed to go to Baizhu’s office himself and his own came back clean. He offered to show the papers which Zhongli declined as he didn’t want to trouble him any further.
He barely covered a fraction of the history of the archon war with the number of hours they had spent walking together. He felt very old compared to the younger man next to him who was eagerly listening and even jotted down
notes
to Zhongli’s utmost delight when he talked about locations of some artifacts long abandoned from Gods who passed on, well, passed on in the cruel sense of how a God could pass on. This ancient feeling subsided when he got just as lost in his lecture as Childe appeared to be.
They were both walking up the steps of the northernmost part of the Jueyunjian lake to admire the waterfall while Zhongli talked on and on, now sure in himself to speak freely and without restraint in fear of being too boring. Being listened to made him so happy.
He talked on as they climbed up the steps, then trailed off when he saw a figure sitting at the ledge and jotting something down in a notebook. He knew that hair. Could it be…
Ah, it was. What a coincidence. It was almost as if Xingqiu was purposely where Zhongli was.
“Something wrong, Zhongli?” Childe asked with a raised eyebrow. “You were just about to tell me about the sword of the God of Jade.”
Zhongli didn’t know if he should bother Xingqiu or greet him. He looked immersed in whatever he was writing at the moment. This was a lovely place to do so. The waterfall was very beautiful this time of day. He actually found himself straying to this part of Liyue specifically without meaning to just so he could admire the scenery. His friend must be enjoying the scenery as well. Yes, he shouldn’t bother him for that reason, he decided. It would be best not to interrupt him.
“Uh, hello? Zhongli?” Childe looked in the same direction as him. “Who are you staring at?”
“Ah, my apologies,” Zhongli said simply. “I got lost in my thoughts.”
Zhongli was about to continue his lecture, but a contorted look in Childe’s face that he didn’t recognize at those words made him forget where he was. “Who’s that?” Childe asked plainly. They watched Xingqiu set his pen down on the ground behind him, turn back forward, then try to grab it again only to stumble over himself and shoot his head back in a desperate search.
“That’s my friend Xingqiu. He recommended me a few interesting titles of literature lately-”
“Zhongli! Hello! What a coincidence and delight to see you here!” Xingqiu’s voice sang when he looked up. He hastily grabbed his pen and notebook, tucked them under his arms, and broke into a small jog to greet the two of them.
“Ah, Tartaglia as well,” the younger man said, his demeanor changing a little.
“The second son of the Feiyun Commerce Guild’s manager,” Childe said with a lack of emotion in his voice. Zhongli wondered how he could so quickly forget his name.
“Hello, Xingqiu,” Zhongli greeted with a small bow and smile. “It’s a pleasure to run into you yet again.”
The bright pink burn over his nose, cheeks, and ears hadn’t healed yet, he noticed. He really should invest a few mora in sunblock or a hat for when he spends time outdoors.
“What brings you here, Zhongli?” Xingqiu asked with a bright smile. He darted his gaze towards Childe who was looking at him with unblinking eyes. “Are you two on… a stroll?” There was something sheepish about that question. Zhongli didn’t press it.
“I see you and Childe have met,” Zhongli said. “He is a good friend of mine. I was teaching him about the history of the archon war. What brings you here?”
“Just writing some poetry,” Xingqiu said with a small shuffle of his feet. “Nothing much, of course.”
“Ah, now that you mention it, I do remember Hu Tao telling me of the poetry you two write together.” Childe’s eyes were darting back and forth between the two of them.
“Are the two of you friends as well?”
“I’m afraid that isn’t quite the correct label.” No mortal on the face of this world pisses me off more than she does.
“I understand that,” Xingqiu said with a laugh. “Just between us, she irritates me a little, not to say I don’t enjoy our collaborations.”
“Then I am not the only one.”
The two of them laughed together. Zhongli thought he heard Childe tsk under his breath, but perhaps he was mistaken.
“Oh! Zhongli, I actually have something with me for you. I was going to give it to you later today, but now is a great time as well.”
“Is it another book?” Zhongli asked as Xingqiu shuffled through his belongings. Xingqiu shook his head.
“No, actually. I wanted to thank you for listening to my recommendations, and I heard from Hu Tao that you liked tea, so…” He pulled out a decorated box. “It’s a blend I made. I wrote down instructions for how to brew it.”
Zhongli opened the box a little and inhaled. It bloomed a light and floral scent of the perfect selection of flowers, herbs, and dried fruits. He closed the lid again to preserve the freshness and smiled warmly. “Thank you, Xingqiu,” he said with trueness. “What a thoughtful gift. I shall brew a cup tonight.”
“Wonderful!” Xingqiu’s eyes darted towards Childe’s. If Zhongli didn’t know any better, he’d think Childe was glaring at him. “You’re teaching Tartaglia about the archon war?” Xingqiu asked as if that wasn’t previously stated while maintaining eye contact with him. Zhongli nodded.
“Just passing through,” Childe said through his teeth. “We were
actually
just leaving-”
“Nonsense,” Zhongli corrected him. “I was planning to stop here anyways for a while.”
Xingqiu looked at the two of them. “So,” he said slowly, “um… are you his instructor of sorts, to go along with your business relationship?”
“I suppose I am now,” Zhongli said lightly. He noticed Childe opened his mouth to speak, but closed it when Zhongli started talking without paying attention.
“And you two are, pardon my bluntness… simply friends, specifically?”
“Indeed we are.” Zhongli noticed Childe opened up his mouth before Zhongli spoke again and closed it once Zhongli finished his sentence.
“Splendid! I-I mean,” Xingqiu suddenly stuttered over himself, “splendid to see both of you! Zhongli… I haven’t forgotten your promise to share a dinner with me yet, and I have more titles to recommend to you whenever you are free. When shall we discuss plans? I do not know when I’ll run into you again, pardon my directness.”
From the corner of Zhongli’s sight, he could see Childe’s eye twitch. “I am free on Saturday evenings,” Zhongli said. “I do not find ill in discussing plans, do not stress. Would six in the evening work for your schedule? I am interested in hearing of the book titles you recommend.”
“So, next week Saturday that time?”
“Certainly.” He didn’t catch what Childe muttered under his breath.
“Wonderful! I’ll see you then.”
“And I w-”
“He’ll see you then,” Childe said in a snap. “We were
just
leaving as I said before. We’re in a bit of a rush, pardon my rudeness, if we stay here all day talking we’ll be late. Come on,
Zhongli,
you were just about to tell me about the jade archon, remember?”
Childe pulled Zhongli by the arm before he could fully say his goodbyes.
They were down the steps and out of the eyesight of the lake before Zhongli gently pulled his arm back.
“Why were you in such a rush to leave, Childe?”
Childe paused and then sighed. “I…” He thought for a moment. “He just irritates me,” Childe finally said.
“Ah, I understand. Sometimes two people simply do not get along. I shall indeed take note of this as I do not want ill to either of you.”
Childe opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. “Sure,” Childe grumbled. “So… jade archon.”
“Yes, of course. Many artifacts have been cast to the depths of the sea, long forgotten by history…”
___
They spent a few more hours on their walk until they realized the sky had begun to warm. They then went back to the harbor and were greeted by black skies full of stars by the time they reached their destination and every restaurant hours past closing time. So, they both settled on dinner at Zhongli’s place.
It wasn’t like they weren’t going there after this was said and done, anyway.
Childe nearly ate his entire pantry from not eating lunch or dinner until now, which Zhongli didn’t mind. He himself didn’t have that much of an appetite, so it wasn’t detrimental to him. He apologized for not having the ingredients on his to cook as he wasn’t planning on doing so, but this was met with a wave of a hand and a light-hearted remark.
They talked about their own lives and work for a while in the kitchen, not minding the unholy hour they were awake at. All the while, Childe was slowly moving closer to him until he was against Zhongli’s chest and had his arms wrapped around him, which he was not opposed to.
They stayed like that for a while, in silence after they both trailed off, just Childe embracing Zhongli while he himself slowly snaked his arms around the other’s frame.
Childe then kissed him wordlessly. It was light and innocent, sweet and kind. Zhongli leaned into it and allowed his fingers to twirl in his hair.
“Zhongli,” Childe asked when they parted with a light smack, “who’s…” he trailed off.
“Hmm?”
“Nevermind,” he said with a shake of his head. “It’s not my right to ask, anyway. We’ve already agreed on who we are.”
He kissed Zhongli again, but it felt a little different this time. Zhongli didn’t know how to explain it. Melancholy? How could kisses be melancholy? It must just be gentler.
“Are you okay?” Zhongli found himself asking. Childe smiled and tucked some hair behind Zhongli’s ear. He was very gentle tonight, he observed.
“It’s… work I don’t want to talk about,” Childe said. Zhongli knew it was a lie deep down but chose to believe him as he didn’t think he had a reason to and didn’t want to make him talk about anything he didn’t want to talk about. “You’re getting better at reading people’s emotions, Zhongli. It must be our intimacy.” Childe paused. “Sorry, that was… a weird thing to say.”
“I don’t think so. I believe you. It makes sense that I would be more in touch with emotions when sharing closeness with another.”
Childe smiled softly. “Speaking of closeness,” he sang, “should we go on to the bedroom? That’s what we’re really here for, isn’t it?”
“I would not be opposed.”
Childe led Zhongli into the bedroom, closed the door behind both of them, and kissed him deeply. It was becoming natural to Zhongli at this point. The feeling of Childe’s lips against his own was burned into his memory, as well as the way he kissed. It didn't take him long to learn to kiss well is to kiss the same way your partner does, so he focused on mirroring Childe’s actions the best he could.
When they parted, Zhongli began to kiss the corner of his mouth, along his cheek, jawline, then down to the top of his throat. Childe sighed a light sound when Zhongli began to suck a light mark.
“Don’t leave any marks where people will see,” Childe told him in a sing-song tune. Zhongli could only nod as he pressed his lips down his neck into a kiss rather than a hickey while sliding gloves off both their hands, nuzzling his face against it and savoring how the texture under his mouth as well as their fingers fiddling and intertwining together felt.
Zhongli inhaled deeply while his nose was buried in Childe’s neck without really meaning to. He smelled like the trees and the grass from their stroll with a hint of the sharp, warm, and caramel scent of whiskey that hadn’t fully washed out of his clothes (he must have run out of vodka) from some nameless time Childe had spent drinking. It was damp, like a summer’s rain on fertile soil. His warm skin under his fingertips felt fertile as well. He didn’t really know why he was describing a male as such a thing, but he didn’t care anymore.
He wanted more. He wanted to taste him everywhere, as intimately as he could.
As intimately as he could… That was an idea he was sure Childe would like.
The taste of his skin was just as deep as the scent. He wished he learned to appreciate it sooner. Childe sighed contently and laced his fingers into Zhongli’s hair, pulling on the band that kept his long strand of hair fastened. Zhongli got his message and leaned back, undid it, and allowed it to waterfall over his shoulders while Childe watched him with wide eyes.
“You’re so pretty,” Childe’s lips said before he could stop them. A hand moved to cover his mouth only to be pulled back while Childe averted Zhongli’s gaze that was growing in intensity.
“That is the first time I have been described as such,” Zhongli breathed quietly. Childe looked back at him with lidded eyes masked by a glaze that was growing all too familiar.
“You… are, though,” Childe mumbled shyly. Zhongli chuckled at his sudden flusteredness and laid another kiss on his neck.
“Thank you, Ajax,” Zhongli hummed as he went back to work. Childe moaned at the use of his real name and leaned into his touch. “I’m glad you find me as such.”
“Of course I do. You’re… you’re beautiful.”
“You flatter me. I’m nothing special,” Zhongli chuckled as he dipped his head down further to explore Childe’s collarbones, slowly trailing down. Childe, at these words, grabbed Zhongli’s jaw with perhaps more force than he intended and pushed their lips together again, passionately and deeply kissing him with a moan at the back of his throat.
“Don’t say that,” Childe ghosted against his mouth when they parted. “You’re amazing, Morax. You
are
special and I…” Childe paused for a moment. “I… really do find you beautiful.”
“As do I find you.”
Zhongli kissed him again as his hands dipped into his shirt and tugged at it. Childe wordlessly undid the fastens and slipped it over his shoulders as Zhongli did steady work of undoing Childe’s pants. While Childe hastily stepped out of them, showing off the growing arousal bulging through his boxers, Zhongli shed his own shirt.
Zhongli began to lightly push Childe against the bed, leading him down to sit on the edge. Zhongli hovered over him and began to nip at the top of his chest, trailing down slowly while Childe breathed heavy and jagged breaths under him until he lapped his tongue over a perky and pink nipple. Childe moaned and arched his back slightly, pushing against his mouth in a silent plea for more. Zhongli lightly bit down in response, earning another light and airy moan.
“I would like to learn how to take initiative in pleasing you more,” Zhongli breathed as he moved down to Childe’s stomach when he had his fill, laying kisses down his abs in a slow and continuing trail downwards. “Tell me what I do incorrectly and what I must do to improve my technicality.”
“What… are you going to do?” Childe asked in a shaky whisper. Zhongli smiled as he sucked a dark mark above the hem of Childe’s boxers, making the body under him shudder. Zhongli then sat on his knees in front of him and tugged the remaining clothing on his body in a silent question.
“I would like to suck your cock,” Zhongli rumbled in a casual but deep tone. Childe moaned in response and bucked his hips forward a little, pushing his half-hard dick into the direction of Zhongli’s face without meaning to.
“F-fuck Morax, you’re getting good at bedroom talk,” was all Childe could manage to say. Zhongli ran a single finger across the start of Childe’s happy trail, burning his gaze into his half-lidded eyes
“Would you like me to?”
“You don’t even have to ask,” Childe said in a light laugh. With that Zhongli pulled his boxers down and off of his beautiful legs he wished he had the patience to litter in kisses and lick every inch of. “Fuck, don’t ask anymore. The answer will
always
be yes for you.”
“For
me,”
Zhongli whispered mostly to himself as he took in the sight of Childe’s growing arousal, exposed and so close to his face. He always thought Childe’s cock was cute, straight with a few bulging veins and a pink tip the same shade of his lips. It was probably a good seven and a half or eight inches in length. Maybe it wouldn’t be too much of a challenge, but still a bit of one. Zhongli looked up to meet Childe’s deep and blue eyes. “How should I start?”
“You can… get me fully hard, like… lick the tip and the shaft.”
Zhongli nodded and extended his tongue to run over the slit of the tip and wrap around the shaft. Childe moaned loud and high at this, eyes moving from Zhongli’s hot and deep gaze to lock on the dark pink, long, and forked tongue wrapping around his cock twitching to full hardness. “I… almost forgot about y-your,
ahh,
tongue,” Childe barely managed to whisper through gasps. Zhongli hummed in response.
He let his tongue slide back over Childe’s cock, relishing the salty and musky taste and Childe’s wet and sweet moans as it recoiled back into his mouth. “Good?” he asked in a low tone he was slowly getting used to hearing from himself. “What should I do differently or next?”
“Wrap it around me again,” Childe whispered. “Don’t talk anymore, I-I really wanna feel it again. I’ll tell you what to do and how you’re doing. Trust me.”
Zhongli hummed again to show he understood and trailed his tongue across the head again, earning a high mewl as a reward. It was smooth, a lot smoother than he expected. The texture was delicious. He hardly expected to be enjoying himself so quickly.
“T-that’s good,” Childe stuttered through moans. He was now fully hard in Zhongli’s mouth despite them just starting. “T-try putting your mouth down as deep as you can go, and suck on it. I w-want your tongue and your mouth-
ahh, f-fuck!”
Zhongli dipped his head down all the way to the base, nuzzling against Childe’s trimmed bush at the base and exhaling breaths out sharply through his nose while he focused on wrapping his tongue around Childe while sucking at the same time. Childe moaned loudly and highly, trembling a little and gripping Zhongli’s loose hair tightly.
Childe’s cock felt weird at the back of his throat. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but not too enjoyable either. What was enjoyable were the sounds the body under him was making and how far gone he already looked. Zhongli focused on making eye contact with him while he settled, even if Childe’s eyes were hiding under the flutter of his eyelashes.
“So much,” Childe gasped when Zhongli sucked harder for fear that he wasn’t doing good enough of a job. “F-fuck it’s s-so much,
Morax…”
Zhongli waited to hear Childe ask for him to pull back, but when he didn’t receive any more instructions, he stayed at the base. “H-how are you not gagging,” Childe laughed lightly. “F-fuck, I’ve never felt small until I s-started… with you…”
Zhongli pulled back at those words with a lewd
pop
and heavy breaths as he tried to collect himself. “Am I… supposed to gag?” he asked breathlessly.
“You don’t have a gag reflex?!”
“What’s that?”
Childe laughed that light and quiet laugh again, still breathless. “You funky dragon man,” he smiled. Zhongli didn’t know what he was supposed to say about that, so, he just licked all the way from the base to the tip in a long stripe, like how Childe did to him, Childe’s laughs slowly turning into mewls and moans until that was all that left his lips.
“Take me again,” Childe shook, “and,
ahh,
b-bob your head when you do.”
Zhongli did as he was told, going down all the way to move his head back and forth about halfway after settling and getting used to the length again. He looked up to Childe to see if there was any visual cue that he was doing well and felt satisfied when he saw his open mouth, flushed face, and glossed over eyes that were hardly seeing from pleasure.
“S-start,
ahh,
sucking again,” Childe gasped, “and use your t-
ahh, f-fuck!”
Zhongli sucked gently, hoping not to hurt him. He puckered his lips out and opened his mouth wider for fear of scraping his fangs against the twitching length in his mouth and circled his tongue around all the while.
A few bobs later and he pulled back to collect his breath again, sucking and licking teasingly all the while in fear of it being enough for Childe before going back down again.
“Faster,” Childe breathed, the grip of his hair becoming soothing and praising pets over his head. Zhongli hummed into the affection. “G-go faster.”
When he moved his head faster, he couldn’t keep the slurping and smacking noises from leaving his lips. They felt disgusting leaving him and so… slutty. No, he didn’t feel comfortable using that word to describe himself. He liked erotic more. The sounds ripping out his lips wrapped around Childe’s cock were so, so erotic.
Childe’s moans were what the word slutty was suited to describe. They were high, needy, drowned in drool collecting in his mouth, and very out of character for the powerful harbinger. They were vulnerable and wanton. He wondered why this action specifically was forcing him to make those beautiful and whorish sounds. He was torn between thinking it was because he liked having his cock sucked more than being fucked or he felt more comfortable around Zhongli and wasn’t restraining himself as much. The latter option made pride swell in his gut and motivated him to work harder.
“Yes!” Childe cried out when Zhongli began to move his wrapped tongue up and down in time with the bobs of his head. “Fuck, yes! T-that’s so good! M-more, Morax, do it more…”
Childe continued to babble pleas and moan while Zhongli found himself going into a steady rhythm. It was initially difficult to focus on doing so many things at once to please Childe, but as time went on, it was becoming repetitive, easier, and allowed his mind to drift off into a peaceful place. It also allowed him to notice the painful bulge in his pants which was definitely staining as he tasted the salty tang of what he could only assume was precome dripping down Childe’s length and into the back of his throat.
He
despised
the taste. He expected it to be better by how eagerly Childe swallowed him the first sexual encounter they had or at least be better than ass. It was just as detestable, he decided. But, it was for Childe. He could suck it up. He tried to hide the way his face scrunched up in disgust as the taste became more prominent.
Oh, gods, what will semen taste like? He hardly thought he’d want to know.
He popped off Childe’s cock with wheezes to collect his breath again. He trailed one hand to Childe’s thigh to steady himself as his world spun in circles and held the other down to palm himself through his pants. After a few deep breaths and before Childe could beg him for more, he set his mouth back down and swallowed Childe whole again, and started to repeat his previous actions while rubbing his aching length all the while.
“F-fuck, Morax!” Childe cried. “I-I think I’m gonna cum!”
Zhongli felt Childe twitch in the back of his throat and fear of having to taste something so horrid made him pull back without thinking, holding his hand at the base to steady Childe’s cock. As soon as his lips popped off of it, thick ropes flew over his face in spurts as Childe moaned a long and high sound Zhongli didn’t hear. He froze in place for reasons he didn’t know as it landed over one of his eyes that fluttered closed on instinct, open lips, nose, and almost everywhere else it could reach. Right when he thought it would never end, the ropes stopped and Childe released a shaky and forced breath.
He could feel Childe’s eyes on him. Zhongli felt too embarrassed to look up. His palm was still rubbing over his fully hard erection without thinking about it.
“Look up,” Childe breathed, and Zhongli did so. Chile led him up so Zhongli’s face could meet his and then leaned in for what Zhongli thought would be a quick kiss, which made him panic a little at the thought of having to taste
that
. Childe licked the cum off of his chin and lips before pressing them flush with his own, swirling a cum-coated tongue against Zhongli’s and forcing him to take it in his mouth.
It was just as detestable as he thought it would be. Bitter and salty. Like seafood. Fuck,
no.
He did
not
want to think about that right now.
His stomach churned a little, but he quickly relaxed when he shifted his focus on how Childe was kissing him. He didn’t mind ignoring the taste for him. In fact… knowing they were exchanging cum like this and swirling it around in each other's mouths made his cock twitch more in his pants.
Zhongli pinned Childe down on the bed without thinking about it, still kissing him all the while. He was forced to swallow whatever cum and spit that Childe pushed into his mouth that didn’t dribble down his chin. They parted for a moment with open mouths connected by a string of thick saliva so Childe could wordlessly wipe the remaining cum off Zhongli’s face with a single finger, hand trailing above his face. When he collected it all, including what smeared on his own face while they kissed in a large glob, he kept eye contact with Zhongli as he licked his finger clean and didn’t swallow, just letting it sit on his extended tongue before pushing that back into Zhongli’s mouth with a moan.
It felt so dirty. So incredibly dirty. Zhongli wasn’t completely sure he liked it but he wasn’t thinking about that, just how this made Childe hard again, cock pressing against his knee as Zhongli pushed it in between his legs. Zhongli twirled his tongue around Childe’s, pushing the cum into the other’s mouth so he wouldn’t have to taste it anymore. This made Childe moan as it dribbled down his and he swallowed whatever didn’t dribble down his lips and his eagerly.
“So slutty,” Zhongli found himself breathing when they parted. Childe moaned at those words and started grinding down on his knee.
“You like me being a slut for you, Morax?” Childe smirked at him. “You like kissing my cum into my mouth and making me taste it?”
They did that, didn’t they? Zhongli hardly had the time to think about how fucking sexy that was. His face flushed a deep shade of red.
“Do you like being called a slut?” Zhongli chose to respond with. Childe chucked.
“I do,” he breathed. “I do like being called your slut.” He ground down on Zhongli’s knee harder and pulled his face down to breathe against his ear. “Tell me I’m your whore,” he whispered against it, “and fuck me right now like that’s what I am.”
Zhongli groaned in response and made quick work of removing his pants and boxers and throwing them aside while Childe watched with attentive eyes and an ever growing smirk. Zhongli reached over him for the nightstand but was stopped by Childe’s hand grabbing his wrist.
“Let’s do it now,” Childe breathed. “You can use spit. I can’t wait for another second. You made me feel so good and I can’t stand waiting for you to start…” Childe trailed off. “I… I just
want
you,” he settled with. Zhongli didn’t press it.
“We need condoms-”
“We got tested for a reason, right?” Childe asked with a tilt of his head. Oh yeah, they did do that, didn’t they? He nearly forgot. Zhongli processed his words for a minute before leaning back to hover over Childe.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” he hesitantly asked. Childe nodded eagerly.
“Please,” he whispered, grinding against nothing. “I want you to fill me up.”
“How should I prepare you without lube?”
“Use that tongue of yours again.”
Zhongli nodded once before leaning back down to Childe’s crotch. He snaked his tongue across his perineum before circling it around the puckering, pink ring of flesh. Childe moaned and grinded down on his face while it flicked against his entrance again and again teasingly.
“Please,” Childe gasped as he dug fingers in his hair, “hurry up and prepare me for your cock, please, I need it,
Morax…”
With that, Zhongli pressed his tongue all the way inside while Childe moaned high and loud, pawing at his head and whimpering as his body spasmed against the intrusion. Zhongli slowed his pace down when he heard him whimper in pain and fucked him deep and slow against his mouth, focusing on stretching him open and making it feel as good as he could all the while.
He sure was glad he enjoyed how unraveled Childe became when he used his mouth because otherwise, he would refuse to taste that horridness ever again. He couldn’t emphasize how disgusting it was, but Childe’s moans were enough to drown out his senses.
When Childe relaxed under his touch and he could feel the muscle open up to him, he experimentally added a finger just out of curiosity. This, to his delight, earned a high and needy moan out of Childe. He curled his tongue and finger up and back, working him open farther before adding a second finger out of desperation. It was becoming rather difficult to work his tongue and fingers in harmony and Childe’s noises were becoming less pleased and quieter at his struggle, so Zhongli resorted to pulling his tongue back to lick the rim and replacing it with two more sudden fingers to make up for the loss. This sent Childe’s arousal in full swing again instantly.
“I-
ahh, fuck,
I want more now,” Childe whined as Zhongli spat on his hole and pushed the spit inside with his fingers. He spilled enough saliva inside of him that it was leaking out a little, so he was forced to spit on it more and hold his fingers against it to lock it inside. “Please-
ahh,
please, I want your cock
now.”
Zhongli pulled his mouth away and moved to hover over Childe. He pressed his lips against Childe’s feverishly, kissing him rougher than he intended to which was met by a pleased moan that he swallowed whole. “Then that is what you shall receive,” he whispered against his mouth as he lined himself up. Childe seemed to like him saying that a lot more than he expected him to, judging from the way his back arched and his mouth fell open in a silent “oh” as Zhongli slowly pressed inside.
Every ounce of his being was screaming at him to slam in and start ruthlessly fucking into Childe the way he had been fantasizing the second they had to say their goodbyes, and yet, he was able to display an amazing degree of self-control as he sank in at a snail’s pace. Childe dug his fingers into his back again, which he would be a little angry at considering how much they stang the next day if it wasn’t for the gorgeous sounds Childe was making and how pretty his eyes looked when he bottomed out, pupils so dilated in the dim light of his bedroom his eyes looked black.
“Move,” Childe demanded in barely a whisper through gasps. It was so soft Zhongli almost didn’t hear it.
“Are you okay?” Zhongli asked. “Last time, you-”
“I know you want to,” Childe breathed. “P-please, just start fucking me the way I know you want to.”
Zhongli didn’t know if he had the strength to verbally respond. Instead, he pulled his cock back to where only the tip and another inch remained and slammed back in. Childe moaned a high whine, wrapping his legs around Zhongli’s waist and pulling him so close their chests were flushed and Zhongli was forced to breathe in that damp forest scent even deeper as if it wasn’t already making his vision black out and his world become dizzier with every breath he took.
Childe was intoxicating he decided when he slammed in again. He didn’t know if his skin was coated with aphrodisiacs or if he was entirely made of drugs and drink to begin with. Every deep inhale was making his grip on reality falter even more until all that was in his mind, all that filled in senses, all that was the core of his being was Childe, no, Ajax. He needed to get out of the habit of referring to him as such, even in his thoughts.
Ajax was thudding his ears with moans that were so erotic that they couldn’t have been completely real, gripping his cock with a feeling he was sure he was going to become addicted to and unable to orgasm without feeling around him at some point, filling his nostrils, head, and lungs with that musky scent becoming deeper with the more sweat that slicked over his smooth and perfect skin, and was so sweet and smooth against his mouth as he sucked a dark spot. He was under his hands and chest, wrapping his legs around his waist, and dragging his nails down his back in deeper cuts that would trail all the way down to his sides before gripping his shoulder blades again.
“It’s so deep,” Childe gasped. “F-fuck it’s so deep inside of me-
ahh!”
Zhongli had no idea how hard he was thrusting. He was just moving. He closed his eyes as he groaned and moaned sounds he was becoming more comfortable with being his own as the vibrations of Ajax’s cries rumbled against his mouth. It was so good, so amazingly good. He wondered if it was possible to completely consume Ajax. All he could do was pull him in closer.
“Is it good,” he heard Ajax whine under him as if he wasn’t the one doing all the work. “I-
ahh, Morax! F-fuckI
P-please, t-tell me it’s good. Am I good? A-
ah, ah,
Am I g-good for you?”
“So good,” he groaned against him. Oh, yeah, he needed to be conscious of what he wanted as well. What was that thing Ajax asked him to do? He swore he could remember. Yes, that was right.
“Such a good slut for me.”
Ajax moaned so cutely at that. He wanted more. He desperately wanted to hear more of those moans. “My-
hnng,
perfect slut,” Zhongli growled, moving his head up so every deep word was brushing against Childe’s open and drooling mouth and he could look into those dilated and black eyes glossed over in lust and tears. “You’re whoring yourself out to me
beautifully.”
“Zhongli, kiss me,
please.”
Something about the way he asked him to do something so simple that they’ve done what felt like a thousand times before while using his human name made his heart flutter.
“Ajax…”
Ajax took the liberty of kissing him, leaning his head up to shove his tongue inside. They moaned deep sounds into each other's mouths as Zhongli’s pace grew harder and more erratic, much to the pleasure of the body crying out underneath him.
Those tears began to fall down Ajax’s face. Zhongli had a feeling that they weren’t because of physical pleasure, but they had to be. He almost stopped to ask if he was okay, but the whine of desperation Ajax released when his pace faltered made him keep going. He broke their kiss with a loud smack and began to kiss those tears off his face, which to his confusion, made Childe cry harder.
“Please, more,” Ajax moaned loudly. “H-harder,
please…”
He was
very
desperate tonight, Zhongli thought to himself, more than amused. He thrust in deeper and with more of his strength, burying his head into the other side of Ajax’s neck all the while. Ajax bowed his back as far as it would go with Zhongli so close to him and pressing down all his weight.
“A-am I good for you?” Ajax whimpered out. It was the same question again. “D-do I feel good?”
“You feel
amazing,”
Zhongli groaned into his neck before biting down. He felt himself grow close.
“I-I’m good for you, right-
ahh f-fuck! F-fuck…
My ass feels so f-fucking good right?” Childe moaned in a quivering voice under him. He was still crying. “T-this is the only c-cocksleeve-
ahh,
you need, right? Just me? I-I’m good enough for you, right?”
Zhongli didn't really know what that question meant but he thought he knew how to answer.
“Perfect for me,” he groaned, moving his face back down to deeply kiss him. “My
perfect fucking slut.”
“I’m gonna cum,” Ajax whimpered into his kiss at those words. “I-it’s so good, I’m gonna- gonna…”
“Me too,” Zhongli breathed against him. “I’m g-gonna c-cum.”
“Inside me,” Ajax begged, tightening his thighs around his sides.
“Please,
Zhongli,
deep
inside of me.”
With that plea, Zhongli’s hips stuttered to a halt as deep as he could go as he groaned loudly into Ajax’s mouth, a deep and consuming orgasm rocking him into the body under him even deeper. He felt himself spill inside intensely, and the other eagerly took every drop while Zhongli’s slow and long orgasm still lingered in every nerve of his body. Ajax quickly followed suit, moaning high and loud as he spilled in between their chests at the feeling of being filled so much and so deeply.
Ajax moved his hands from Zhongli’s back to his head as he pushed it down deeper to kiss him more passionately, both of them moaning into it and getting lost in the feeling of each other as their mouths danced in a rhythm Zhongli could tap out on-demand at this point. Slow and steady, but deep and full of motion. It was just as consuming as his orgasm, filling every part of his being as he slowly came down from his high.
“So good,” Ajax sighed into his mouth when they parted. “I’m so
full…”
“Ajax… you…” Zhongli couldn’t find the words, so he just pressed their lips together again. Childe moaned into it and pushed his head down deeper as if Zhongli would float away if he didn’t keep his grip.
“Say my name again,” Ajax breathed into him.
“Ajax,”
Zhongli sighed as if the name was burned on his lips.
He kissed Zhongli again, more sweetly this time than desperate. Zhongli melted into it, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close.
They parted again, breathing heavy breaths while Zhongli just took his presence in and allowed it to fill him. He felt whole. He didn’t know why that was the word he was using to describe how he felt, but he felt like it fit. He felt whole when he was with Ajax like this. Complete, even, though he didn’t really know what that meant.
“We should clean up,” Ajax said softly. Zhongli nodded to show that he understood and slowly pulled out before leaning up and climbing off the bed.
He turned his head back to ask Ajax something but forgot what he was going to say when he watched how globs of cum leaked out of his swollen and gaping hole. Something about seeing the product of his work made great pride swell in his gut. Ajax was leaning back, chest visibly rising and falling and stomach pulsing under the contractions his muscles were still making and the thudding of his beating heart. His face was pink and flushed and stained with tears, dried spit, and cum. His eyes were blue again. He was beautiful.
Those blue eyes met his. He never thought about how easy it was to drown in them.
“What?” Ajax asked him, snapping Zhongli back to reality.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “You just look beautiful.”
Ajax blushed a deep shade of red at these words and covered his face with his arm. “Shut up,” he mumbled.
Zhongli left their interaction at that as he went to the bathroom to dampen a warm washcloth. A few seconds passed of him preparing it and letting the water running from the sink heat before he heard footsteps slowly approach and turned around to see Ajax walking up to him on wobbly legs.
“You should lay down,” Zhongli told him with a hint of a frown in his voice. “That can’t be comfortable.”
“I should hurry,” Ajax mumbled. “You probably want me out of your hair soon.”
Zhongli tilted his head. “What do you mean?” he asked, confused.
“I… said some weird things when we… yeah.” His gaze was on the floor.
“What was weird, exactly? I don’t follow.” Insecurity began to settle in Zhongli’s gut. “Did I do something wrong, Ajax?”
Ajax went quiet for a moment. “You did nothing wrong,” he said, and Zhongli knew it was the truth. He could feel no falsehood or lie for his comfort. “You were great. I just… you know.”
“I don’t.”
Ajax went quiet again, then sighed and gently took the washcloth from Zhongli to wash his face with. “I should’ve remembered that you were dense as all hell,” Ajax grumbled as he ran the sink to splash water on his face. “Sorry. I shouldn't have said anything.”
“What did you say that was weird?”
Childe sighed and shook his head again. He started wiping the mess on his ass far too hastily. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Ajax… shouldn’t we talk about this?”
“Don’t-” Ajax stopped himself. “I… I’ll see you again soon. This was fun, but don’t get too impatient on me,” he said with a wink. Something about it looked forced to Zhongli. “You wouldn’t mind showing me that domain you were talking about next time, yeah?”
“I would love to teach you more about the archon war,” Zhongli said with a nod. “I thought that you were stay-”
“I’d love to stay, but that will just have to be next time,” Ajax smiled. That smile was forced too, he knew. “I have so much work to do, you know?” He laughed a little. “Took a little toll on me spending the whole day together. I’ll have to be smarter with my schedule next time.” Zhongli wrapped a towel around his waist as he followed Ajax to the bedroom where he watched him dress despite barely cleaning up. He hardly looked like he was suitable enough to go. “I really had fun, really. I always enjoy our little sessions. Sorry for messing up your sheets and leaving like this, I’ll make it up to you in the usual favor next time.”
“You really should at least take a bath or sleep-”
“I said I can’t.”
Far too quickly, Ajax… He wasn’t talking to his true self right now. Even someone as dense and socially clueless as Zhongli knew he was knew something so obvious. Far too quickly Childe got completely dressed. He was a mess. His shirt was on backward, shoes on the wrong foot, hair ruffled like all hell, and mask on the opposite side of his head. He would look hilarious if Zhongli wasn’t worried for him.
“You’re a mess and you’re not even cleaned up yet,” Zhongli told him in his usual matter-of-fact tone. “It would be better if you stayed over and rested.” He wasn’t going because he had work tomorrow. He knew this. He just didn’t know if it was appropriate to say that he knew this and he didn’t know if it would make Childe angry to press him to stay or even if it was selfish to want such a thing.
“It’s fine,” Childe said simply. “I’m fine, this is fine. I have to go now. Thank you, this was fun. Lots of fun. You’ll show me that domain?”
“As I said, I certainly will-”
“Wonderful. Bye, Xiansheng,” Childe smiled. He said and did nothing else with that but leave his apartment in a horribly concealed rush.
Zhongli thought on his red face and glassy eyes as he avoided eye contact throughout that whole ordeal while he stood in the middle of his bedroom in a daze, fully naked other than the towel around his waist. He thought about how Childe rushed and stumbled over his words as he closed and locked the door Childe clumsily left open.
More in touch with human emotions when introduced to deep intimacy. Childe made this remark, or, something like that. If this observation held any degree of truth, he could attempt to guess and had the ability to possibly get the answer right.
Embarrassed. He must have been embarrassed by the words he apologized for saying while they had intercourse. Yes, this made sense. But which words were worth being embarrassed over? He had no issue asking to be degraded in the past, so that wasn’t it. Was there anything else that stuck out as strange to Zhongli?
“This is the only cocksleeve you need, right? Just me? I’m good enough for you, right?”
He could still hear those words and hear him crying. That must have been it. He felt bad for being proud of putting the pieces together so well since he knew he should continue to feel concerned for Ch- Ajax. The two of them felt like different people sometimes. He went to the kitchen to brew himself some tea to calm his mind.
Childe was not a self-conscious person, he knew this. His confidence was more than evident. If he didn’t think he was good enough for him, he wouldn’t have initiated sex and flirted with him for so long. It wouldn’t make any sense. Yes, that couldn’t have been it. Then…
Zhongli tsked to himself at the thought of Childe being jealous. It was absurdly out of character. Childe had made it outstandingly clear that he wanted nothing but to be “friends with benefits” as he put it, so it wouldn’t make sense. Plus, it wasn’t like there was anyone else who wanted to be with him, therefore there was nothing to be jealous over. No one had ever openly expressed they wanted to have sex with him except Childe. Both of them knew this. He was the only one.
There really was
no one
to be jealous over, he thought to himself in frustration as he sifted the tea leaves Xingqiu gave him.
The water in the kettle was now heated to the perfect temperature. Zhongli brewed the tea precisely as the younger man’s curly handwriting instructed him. It was a nice assortment, the box and the instruction card had a design decorated on both of them that had Xingqiu’s personality written all over it in a way he couldn’t explain.
It was very nice tea, light and floral with a small hint of citrus that wasn’t too acidic and overpowering to the gentle flowery aroma. Xingqiu had exquisite tastes in everything, Zhongli decided. Didn’t he say he made this blend himself specifically for him? How thoughtful.
What could Childe
possibly
be upset over?
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Capítulo 3: O Contágio do Medo
O silêncio no quarto de Hinata era ensurdecedor. Um segundo antes, era um refúgio de paz, com o cheiro suave de lavanda vindo de um pequeno difusor sobre a cômoda e a luz amarela do abajur criando um ambiente acolhedor. Agora, o ar parecia ter sido sugado do ambiente, substituído por um vácuo gelado que arrepiava a pele dos seus braços. O brilho da tela do celular iluminava seu rosto pálido, os olhos arregalados fixos naquela imagem impossível. A figura escura, os membros disformes, a torre do relógio distorcida como se vista através de água suja. E a notificação de falha, uma sentença digital que zombava dela: "O número não existe."
O celular. Tudo sempre começava com o celular.
A memória veio como um soco no estômago, tão nítida que a fez perder o fôlego. O ensino médio. A vibração incessante do aparelho. As notificações que chegavam como pequenas facas digitais, uma após a outra. Uma foto privada, tirada de seu celular antigo, espalhada por toda a escola. As mensagens anônimas, os risos nos corredores, o inferno que durou meses. Ela aprendeu da pior forma possível como um aparelho que deveria conectar podia isolar, como uma tela podia tornar-se uma arma. O medo que sentiu agora não era apenas sobrenatural; era antigo, enraizado. Era o mesmo pânico de ter sua privacidade violada, de um inimigo invisível saber exatamente como a ferir.
O ar pareceu ficar mais denso. Frio. Ela conseguia sentir o frio entrando pelas frestas da janela, embora soubesse que a tinha fechado. Cada sombra no canto de seu quarto, antes familiar, agora se contorcia com um potencial maligno. A porta de seu armário, que ela sempre deixava entreaberta, era um rasgo de escuridão infinita, e ela podia jurar que ouviu o barulho de um tecido se mexendo lá dentro. O som da sua própria respiração era alto e ofegante, um tambor descontrolado em seus ouvidos, abafando o tique-taque suave do seu relógio de cabeceira.
Ela largou o celular na cama como se ele queimasse, afastando-se de costas até o corpo bater na parede fria, o impacto a fazendo estremecer. Seus olhos varriam o quarto, procurando uma ameaça que não conseguia nomear. A janela. A cortina balançou. Foi o vento? Tinha a certeza de que a tinha fechado. Seu coração saltou para a garganta. Ela ficou imóvel, prendendo a respiração, à espera de outro movimento. Nada. O silêncio voltou, mais pesado do que antes.
"Você está vendo coisas." A frase de Temari para Shikamaru, que ela tinha ouvido mais cedo no Ichiraku, ecoou em sua mente. Seria isso? Uma memória traumática a pregar-lhe peças?
Não. A imagem estava no celular. Ou esteve. O frio era real. E se era real, ela não podia ficar ali sozinha.
Com as mãos a tremer, ela pegou no celular de novo, abraçou os joelhos por um segundo para tentar controlar a trepidação que subia pelas suas pernas e saiu do quarto, os pés descalços sentindo o frio do chão do corredor. Só havia uma pessoa a quem ela podia recorrer, alguém cuja mente lógica e pragmática poderia colocar ordem no seu caos.
A porta do quarto de Sakura ficava a apenas dez metros de distância, mas pareceu uma maratona através de um campo minado de sombras projetadas pelas luzes de emergência do corredor. Hinata bateu, um toque fraco e hesitante.
A porta abriu-se, revelando uma Sakura de pijama e com uma expressão cansada, provavelmente ainda remoendo o encontro tenso com Sasuke. Mas sua irritação desapareceu no instante em que viu o estado da amiga.
— Hinata? O que aconteceu? Você está branca como um fantasma.
— Sakura... eu... eu não sei — a voz dela era um sussurro trêmulo, quebrado. — O meu celular... eu recebi uma coisa. Uma coisa horrível.
Sakura puxou-a para dentro, fechando a porta e guiando-a até à beira da cama. O quarto de Sakura era uma bagunça organizada, com livros de medicina abertos e notas adesivas coloridas coladas na parede como um mosaico de ansiedade acadêmica.
— Calma, respira fundo. Senta aqui. Me conta, o que você recebeu?
Em vez de responder, Hinata apenas estendeu o celular com a mão trêmula, a tela ainda acesa.
Sakura pegou no aparelho, o rosto sério e concentrado. Ela rolou a tela para cima e para baixo. Sua expressão de preocupação suavizou-se, dando lugar a uma confusão gentil.
— Hina... não tem nada aqui. Só as suas conversas com as meninas do grupo de estudos.
— O quê? — Hinata pegou no celular de volta, o coração a afundar. A tela de mensagens estava aberta. A notificação de falha da sua resposta ainda estava lá, solitária. Mas acima dela... nada. O histórico estava limpo. A imagem e a mensagem do número desconhecido tinham desaparecido como se nunca tivessem existido. — Não... não, estava aqui! Eu juro! Tinha uma foto da torre, com uma... uma sombra estranha! E a mensagem de erro da minha resposta ainda está aqui, olha!
Sakura olhou para a notificação de falha.
— Hina, isso pode ser um bug. Às vezes o sistema tenta reenviar uma mensagem antiga que falhou, acontece. Você não acha que pode ter adormecido por um segundo e sonhado? Com o stress das provas, é normal ter pesadelos, ver coisas...
— Não era um sonho! Era real! — a voz de Hinata ficou mais aguda, uma ponta de desespero a surgir.
— Eu acredito em você — disse Sakura, a voz suave, mas seu olhar era o mesmo que se usa para acalmar um animal assustado. Um olhar cheio de pena. — Acredito que você viu algo que te assustou. Mas olha, não há nada no celular. O mais provável é que tenha sido um pop-up com vírus, ou um pesadelo muito vívido. Por que você não tenta dormir um pouco? Se quiser, pode dormir aqui hoje.
Hinata olhou para o rosto da amiga, procurando qualquer sinal de que ela acreditava, mas só encontrou a mesma preocupação condescendente que Temari tinha oferecido a Shikamaru. Ela sentiu as lágrimas se formarem nos cantos dos olhos, não só de medo, mas de uma profunda e terrível solidão. Era a segunda a ver algo impossível. E a segunda a ser tratada como uma criança delirante.
Depois de Hinata ter saído, visivelmente abalada, Sakura fechou a porta e suspirou, passando a mão pelo cabelo. A imagem da sua amiga, tão genuinamente aterrorizada, perturbou-a mais do que ela queria admitir. Sua mente científica procurava explicações lógicas: alucinação hipnagógica, paralisia do sono, estresse agudo. Ela pegou seu próprio notebook e, quase por instinto, pesquisou: "sintomas de psicose por privação de sono". A lista de resultados era longa e clínica, mas nada parecia se encaixar perfeitamente. Ela olhou para o celular de Hinata, que a amiga tinha esquecido na cama na pressa. Por um momento, sentiu um impulso de o analisar, procurar por malwares, qualquer coisa. Mas hesitou. Seria uma invasão de privacidade. Com um suspiro frustrado, ela colocou o aparelho de lado. A lógica dizia que Hinata estava exausta. Mas uma pequena parte de seu cérebro, a parte que a tornava uma boa médica, sussurrava que ela estava ignorando o sintoma mais importante: o puro e inegável terror nos olhos da sua amiga.
No seu próprio quarto, Shikamaru não sentia medo. Sentia o clique satisfatório de peças se encaixando. A validação era uma droga poderosa. Ele não estava louco.
A pesquisa tornou-se uma caçada. Ele abriu dezenas de abas, mergulhando na história digital da academia. A maioria dos caminhos levava a becos sem saída. Mas sua mente estratégica começou a ligar pontos que outros não veriam. Ele percebeu que a maioria das lendas de fantasmas eram recentes, histórias de calouros para assustar uns aos outros. A dele era diferente. Tinha raízes.
Ele encontrou um fórum de ex-alunos, um site arcaico do início dos anos 2000, com um design que era uma agressão aos olhos. A maioria dos posts era sobre reencontros de turma e queixas sobre professores. Mas, usando a palavra-chave "torre", ele encontrou uma thread de 2002 intitulada "Lugares Estranhos do Campus".
Um post anônimo dizia: "Alguém mais sente um frio bizarro perto da torre do relógio, mesmo no verão? E a sensação de estar sendo observado?"
Abaixo, uma resposta: "Sim! E às vezes, se você ficar quieto, parece que consegue ouvir... não sei... sussurros. Como estática de rádio. Minha colega de quarto dizia que era o vento, mas não soava como vento."
Outro post: "Isso é lenda antiga. Dizem que um aluno se atirou de lá nos anos 70. Mas a administração abafou o caso."
Mentiras, provavelmente. Mas a palavra "sussurros" brilhou na tela. Era a mesma palavra do artigo de jornal. Armado com essa nova peça, ele refinou sua busca. "Sussurros torre academia Konoha".
Foi assim que encontrou o artigo sobre Hayate Gekko. E o anuário. Levou quase uma hora, mas ele finalmente achou a foto do clube de esgrima. Um jovem de aparência cansada, com olheiras profundas que nem a má qualidade da foto conseguia esconder.
Shikamaru deu zoom na imagem. E então, ele viu. O símbolo.
Um círculo, com três vírgulas curvas girando para dentro, como um remoinho.
Um arrepio percorreu o corpo de Shikamaru, um arrepio não de medo, mas de reconhecimento. Ele minimizou a janela do anuário e abriu a foto que tinha tirado mais cedo, a da torre do relógio. Deu o zoom máximo que conseguiu na base de pedra da torre, a imagem ficando pixelizada.
Lá estava.
Gravado na pedra, quase apagado por décadas de chuva e vento, e coberto de musgo, estava o mesmo símbolo.
Não era uma coincidência. Era uma conexão. Uma linguagem. O símbolo ligava o desaparecimento de 1998, os sussurros, os calafrios, àquele lugar. Era sua próxima pista. E ele tinha a sensação arrepiante de que, ao contrário da sombra e do relógio, aquele símbolo era algo que ele não deveria ter encontrado. Era uma peça de um quebra-cabeça muito mais antigo e sombrio do que ele jamais poderia ter imaginado. E ele, um gênio preguiçoso que só queria paz, tinha acabado de o colocar no seu tabuleiro de shogi pessoal.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
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You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
King's Landing 298 AC.
Jaime.
Holding meetings, answering questions that he knew not the answer too and seeing the looks on people's faces as they met with him rather than the king or queen was not how he'd envisioned his days. That he was apparently doing a decent enough job of it didn't make him feel any better about it either. Jaime doing what he must rather than what he wished to do and were it not for Dacey and Joanna, for Genna, and surprisingly for Oberyn Martell, he didn't know if he'd have been able to.
Every instinct in him wished him to be by Jae's side and yet he knew he could not do so and was as needed as much if not more here as he was there. The realm needed stability and though he wanted to spend his days with the boy he thought of as his son, it was up to him to provide that stability. So once again he woke early and kissed his wife on the lips and on her swollen belly before walking into Joanna's room and kissing her forehead as she slept. Jaime cursing that he needed to rise before them and yet just as he had for the last two weeks he did just that.
After he dressed he made his way to his solar and began the painstaking process of writing out missives and orders, all so that the simple day to day business of the realm could carry on without stoppages or delays. Dacey arrived to order him to lunch, just as she had each day for this past week. Jaime finding that his appetite was both ravenous and nonexistent at times as his worries for Jae increased each day that he didn't wake up. He'd been certain he would have by now, so much so that he had no difficulty, at least early on, in reassuring Margaery that all would be well. Something that was now getting harder and harder for any of them to do.
"Come eat." Dacey said and he nodded as he left the last of the papers unsigned and followed her to their small dining room.
Looking at Joanna smile happily at him as they ate at their small table gave him temporary respite from his troubled thoughts. As did watching Dacey eat in the least ladylike manner possible, his wife's hunger knowing few bounds and Jaime believing like her mother did, that it truly was a bear she carried. When he would stop and not eat as he sat with them, Joanna would reach out and take something from her own plate and hold it up to him. His daughter just like her mother wouldn't let him go hungry.
"Eat Papa." Joanna said and while the piece of cheese she held didn't look very appetizing to him, just looking at his daughter he knew he was lost and could refuse her nothing.
"Thank you little cub." he said and was rewarded with the brightest smile he'd ever seen, his daughter's was one that could make him move the very mountains themselves he'd always thought.
"More papa?" Joanna asked.
"Aye, more." he said before he lifted her from her seat and began blowing on her neck, Joanna's laughter like a balm to his soul.
They ate and played or truth be told played far more than they ate and then Sera came to take his daughter to her lessons. Jaime kissing her cheeks repeated while she laughed and then allowing the servant to take her from him.
"You spoil her." Dacey said still eating.
"I'm a Lannister, the head of the wealthiest house in Westeros and Hand of the King, if I can't spoil our daughter than who can?" he asked and saw Dacey's small smirk.
"True enough, have you much more to do today?" Dacey asked.
"Petitions and a small council meeting."
"And Jae?" she asked looking at him.
"And Jae." he said.
After he finished his food and took a large swallow of the warmed milk, he walked over and kissed his wife once more, his hand automatically going to her belly and rubbing it before he moved away from her. Bidding her farewell for now he headed to the Throne Room to hear the petitions and for the next few hours he did just that. Jaime sighing when it was clear that word was beginning to spread about the King's illness and the Queen's reluctance to leave his side.
When he was done he headed straight to the Small Counsel chambers, finding Oberyn and Olenna to be the only ones inside. Jaime cursing himself for forgetting that Ser Richard had left to travel to Braavos with Willas and Wyman. Had he remembered that and the fact that Lord Monford was readying the fleet to take Asha Greyjoy to the Iron Islands, then he'd have held this meeting in his solar rather than at the large table with just he, Olenna, and Oberyn present.
"The very small counsel." Oberyn said with a chuckle as Jaime took his seat.
"Indeed." he said.
"Is there actually much that we need to discuss?" Olenna asked.
"Nothing of any great import though I wish Ser Richard was here." he said looking at them both.
"People are beginning to speak?" Oberyn asked.
"Questions are being raised. The lords and ladies we can deal with, the Smallfolk though…" he left the rest unsaid.
"Ser Richard's men, perhaps they can be used?" Olenna said.
"The red priests too." Oberyn said catching him by surprise.
"The red priests?" he asked.
"Thoros and Lady Melisandre, they've gathered quite a following. People have even begun work converting one of the warehouses down on the docks into a temple." Oberyn said.
"Since when?" he asked stunned.
"From as soon as Lady Melisandre arrived from Dragonstone. Jae promised her that he'd allow them the freedom to teach their religion as long as they followed certain rules and word has spread that they helped our king while he was hidden." Oberyn said.
"Word spread by them no doubt." Olenna said annoyed.
"Word spread all the same, Olenna." Oberyn said.
"Ser Richard's men?" he asked looking to Olenna.
"A Ser Jareth I believe is the main one, though given how secretive the order of Skulls and Kisses is that may just be what they wish me to believe." Olenna said with a smirk.
"I can trust you to speak to him then, Lady Olenna?" he asked and she nodded "And you the red priests, Oberyn?"
"You can, what it is you wish of them?" Oberyn asked.
"Have them let it be known that Jae is recovering and that this is not something they need to be overly concerned about. Let them know that both the king and queen will soon be appearing to speak to them and that their absence is because of them being newlywed." Jaime said.
"And we're sure they both will be returning to their duties soon?" Oberyn asked concernedly.
"We can hope." he said seeing the nods from both of them.
They discussed other considerations of the realm, Jaime telling them that he'd received the raven from the Vale and that Harrold Hardyng was on his way to swear his fealty and Olenna asking about Catelyn Tully only for Jaime to shake his head and refuse to speak on her. Jae would deal with her when he awoke and it would be to the lady's benefit that it was him that did so. Where it left to any of them in this room then Catelyn Tully wouldn't live for long and Oberyn had already suggested many ways of seeing to her end.
"From now on we'll speak in one of our solar's until the others have returned." Jaime said and Olenna and Oberyn both agreed before he turned to walk from the room leaving them both sitting there and speaking to each other.
He was heading to Jae's rooms when he was asked to go to meet with his aunt. Jaime wondering what it was that she wished to speak to him about and knowing now that he'd be back with Dacey and Joanna much later than he had hoped to be. Genna had taken over the running of the Red Keep itself, the household, the stores, the servants, and stewards all answering to her so as to remove those duties from Margaery's shoulders. As he reached her door he hoped that it was those she wished to speak to him on but he knew it would not be.
"You wished to see me?" he said as he walked into the room, Genna sitting at her desk filling out countless papers.
"I do, you heard what your cousin did?" she asked with a soft smile on her face.
"No? Wait, which cousin?" he asked as he took a seat.
"Joy, of course. Apparently, she found a way into Jae and Margaery's rooms, the queen returned from the balcony and found her lying in her bed speaking to Jae." Genna said her smile fuller now.
"The little minx." he said with a chuckle, "Wait, when was this?"
"Last night. I collected her this morning and Margaery has agreed to let her come back during the day and later tonight." Genna said and Jaime nodded.
"And that's what you wished to speak to me about?"
"No, that's just something I wished to tell you. What I want to speak on is the Trout." his aunt said her voice and face much different now and Jaime could see the humor that had been clear in both was now completely gone.
"Will be dealt with when Jae awakens." he said.
"I wish to speak to her." Genna said.
"Aunt.."
"I won't harm her, not physically, though it will take all I have in me not to. I wish to speak to her Jaime, see it done."
"I don't know if that's such a good idea." he said looking at her and shaking his head.
"I don't care, see it done." she said almost dismissively.
He sat there for a few moments thinking it over, knowing that his aunt wished to give Catelyn Tully a piece of her mind and that she was not alone in this. Dacey, Ashara, Olenna, and were it not for Jae's condition he suspected even Margaery herself would all wish to do likewise. After a moment's thought he began to think it wasn't such a bad idea, after all, the woman deserved to be spoken down to and there was no one more qualified to do so than Genna.
"Very well, I'll arrange it for the morrow." he said rising from his seat.
"Thank you." his aunt said softly.
As he was walking to the door he heard her cough and he turned back to look at her, Genna staring at him as if she was about to say something, and then just when he thought she would not, she did.
"Give him, my love, Jaime." she said as she lowered her head, her voice soft and Jaime said he would before he left to go and sit with Jae for a little bit before he would head back to his rooms.
King's Landing 298 AC.
Sansa.
None of them had been allowed to see him, not her, not Arya or Robb, Martyn, Willem, or Joy. None of the children had been allowed inside and despite the many protests she made, the angry ones that Arya had or the more reasoned ones that Robb put forth, her father and the others wouldn't relent. Each day they were simply told that he was recovering and they'd see him soon and Sansa felt it to be true. Telling both Arya and Robb of how it was when he'd fallen in the Riverlands and how for days on end she'd sat by his bed and just watched him sleep. She told them that it had seemed as if he'd never wake up but that after almost two weeks Jon had and his recovery afterward was total and complete.
It didn't reassure them or her as much as she hoped and Sansa found she missed not having Willas by her side to offer her the same reassurances. Each day that passed only made her worries rise and Arya act out more and more, not even their father's threats of discipline calming her sister's anger. If it hadn't been for the wolves, then she doubted anything could have. Fang, Nymeria, and Grey Wind all refusing to leave their sides for more than a few moments at a time, and Sansa grateful for that and for the ability to get lost in her wolf's mind as well.
She'd found that when she did so her worries reduced somewhat and whether it was that Fang didn't worry in the same way as she did or that the wolf knew more than her, she couldn't be sure. What she was sure of though was that it allowed her to think that Jon would recover and that despite it taking longer for him to do so, it didn't mean what she believed it to. Whatever it was that was going on with her brother was something that he needed to do and so she choose to believe that and to share it with both Robb and Arya.
"Jon is fighting, Arya, it's a fight we can't take part in but it's a fight he will win." she said as they all sat in her room.
"How do you know? How could you, you've not seen him, none of us has." Arya said her anger as always tinged with the worry she felt.
"The wolves know, Arya. Jon told me that many years ago, they know more than we and we need to trust that they're right, now and always."
"I don't understand?" Robb said looking her way.
Sansa did her very best to explain it, how she'd been in Fang and how it had felt and that she was certain that she was right. Both Robb and Arya making her doubt it though when they said that perhaps she was believing what she wished to and not what was the truth. So she did the only thing she knew to do, she told them to warg and to see it for themselves. Robb got up and locked the door, even though most near them knew of their warging they'd decided it was for the best if they kept it to those who understood. Sansa having remembered the conversation she'd had with Lady Olenna when she'd explained what it was like to warg and the advice the woman had given her.
"
The faith would not think so highly on this, the Citadel either. The North is already thought of disparagingly by some in the South, I too felt that way at one time." Olenna said looking at her.
"
You think I should keep it to myself?" she asked.
"
It's for the best that you do, Sansa, besides some secrets, are fun to keep are they not?"
Willas had told her likewise as had Jon who'd also explained that his family had always been looked warily upon because of the dragons and it had led some to lash out at them or thinking them to be against the nature of the gods.
"
Wargs may be a known thing, Sansa, in the North and in books but it's one thing to know of them and another to see them proved true. There are those in the realm who fear magic and would seek to harm those who possess it and trust me, little sister, it's magic that we possess."
So for now at least it was best it was kept secret and once Robb had locked the door and returned to his seat, she, her brother, and sister closed their eyes and were soon in their wolves.
She lay on the ground, her wild sister and swift brother beside her, their quiet brother lay beside his two-foot while mother followed after her own. The fierce brother sat by a fire and chewed on a bone, his two-foot speaking to him as he brushed his coat. Far away in the north, their wise brother ran free through the woods and she could almost sense the beating of his heart as he engaged in the hunt.
Looking to her wild sister and swift brother she saw they felt it too, the presence that was coming their way and getting ever closer. She could feel their excitement when they realized who it was and she wondered if mother knew father was on the way. Her wild sister seemed upset and so she moved to her and rubbed her head against her, the swift brother doing likewise and she knew then it was because of the quiet brother's two-foot. He was there but not there, here but not here, and though her wild sister and swift brother worried about him, the quiet brother did not and so she pointed them to him.
Sansa opened her eyes and saw that Arya and Robb still had their's closed and so she waited until they were done and had come back to themselves before she spoke.
"Did you feel it?" she asked and saw Robb nod and Arya smile a little, the first one she'd seen on her sister's face in quite a number of days.
"He'll recover." Arya said.
"Aye, he will."
"And then he'll deal with mother." Robb said and Sansa felt her joy at their relief soon begin to fade.
Jon being ill had in some ways been a good thing as it had allowed them to forget the fact that their mother was now here and would soon need to be dealt with. Her crimes were many and numerous and each of them had agreed that she needed to pay for them, though all of them had different ideas of how much she needed to pay. Surprisingly it was Arya who spoke up more for her than she or Robb did, her little sister not knowing as much about what their mother had done as either of them.
Sansa was both reluctant to tell her and knew that she had needed to know the full extent of what their mother had been a part of. When Jon had told them what he planned to do, she had sat quietly and listened and had found herself at odds with him. Her mother had tried to kill him, had cost Alyrs his life, and had that been all then that would have been enough. But Sansa remembered how she'd acted when she'd tried to have him killed again. What she had said and how she had behaved and even after it all she'd still tried to deny her brother what was his by right. She'd sat and listened and kept her own counsel, wishing for nothing more than to stand up and scream out how wrong it all was.
How she didn't deserve mercy or forgiveness or a single one of their tears and how if she'd have had her way then they'd be mourning Jon and not worrying about her fate. She'd wished to but she had not and though she disagreed completely with what Jon had decided Sansa had accepted it. He was her brother and it was he who'd been harmed and so it was his choice alone to make.
"She's getting off easy." she said to a gasp from Arya and a worried look from Robb.
"Sansa?" Robb said looking at her.
"No Robb, what she did, what she tried to do, if it were anyone but her then she'd lose her head. You understand that and how this will make Jon look. She is our mother and I loved her once, perhaps deep down inside I love her still, but were she not, if she was someone else's that would you worry so about her fate?"
"But she's not someone else's mother, she's ours." Arya said and Sansa saw her sister wipe her eye.
"And she tried to harm the pack, Arya, she tried to kill Jon, to break the pack up." she said looking to her sister.
When they left she knew she'd not changed their minds on their mother, though she took comfort that she'd at least managed to alleviate their concerns about Jon. Sansa lay back down on her bed and hoping that her brother would awake soon and that Willas would return unharmed.
Braavos 298 AC.
Willas.
His cane hit the ground as he moved through the city, Willas making his first visit to Braavos as was Ser Richard while Lord Wyman had come here many times both of them had been happy to find out. It had taken them three days to receive an audience with the Iron Bank. Willas finding himself incredibly annoyed at the wait, though Ser Richard had welcomed it, the man disappearing into the city more than once since they'd arrived.
Their prisoner had behaved impeccably throughout, Willas certain it was the fact that Jae had allowed him to keep his own gold and that they were only taking the companies. Gorys still wearing an almost king's ransom in it on his person. He knew the man had tried and failed to bribe many of the guards who'd been left over him, Jae insisting that it was the men of the hundred and Ser Richard's own rather than any others who'd been handed the task. His grandmother had been affronted at the suggestion that some of their men would or could be bought for coin, until Margaery had pointed out that in truth that was what they had done to them in the first place.
But once he'd realized he couldn't escape then Gorys had just welcomed his good fortune and good treatment. The man had eaten and drunk far better than all but the noblest of their prisoners. Now though he was being led into the Iron Bank's building and Willas felt nervous about it and about how the bankers may react to him. Given the sheer amount of coin the man was in control of, what was to stop him from turning them to his side? It was a question he'd pondered and one which Ser Richard had provided the answer to. One single word making everything clear, dragons.
"Relax, they're just bankers." Wyman said sensing his nervousness as they entered the bank's domain.
"That's the problem, my lord." he said receiving a large guffaw from the merman in return.
Once inside the building they were taken straight into a large room with a big imposing desk that had three chairs behind it. Willas, Wyman, and Gorys Edoryen the only three from their group allowed in the room, all their guards having to wait outside. Willas felt his nerves begin to rise once more and only relaxed when the tall thin man walked in carrying a number of books in his hand and took a seat before bidding them take their own. There were a few moments of silence as the man looked at each of them before he then spoke.
"And how may the Iron Bank help you today?" the thin man asked.
"You know who we are?" Wyman said while Willas gathered his wits about him.
"Lord Wyman Manderly, newly appointed Master of Trade to his Grace King Jaehaerys Targaryen. Lord Willas Tyrell newly appointed Master of Coin to the same king and Gorys Edoryen Paymaster General of the now not so Golden Company." the man said and though the last part could have been a jape his voice had not changed at all.
"And you are?" Willas asked.
"Noho Dimittis."
"First things first, Gorys if you will." Willas said finally feeling ready to take charge.
"As you are no doubt aware The Golden Company keeps a large account here with the Iron Bank and I as Paymaster General have control over that account do I not?" Gorys asked.
"You are correct."
"As a result of my agreement with his grace, I've come here to sign that account over to Lord Willas and the crown." Gorys said.
"The entire account?" Noho asked surprised.
"The entire account." Gorys said.
"Which stands at?" Willas asked.
He watched as Noho opened one of the books and began skimming over pages until finally stopping and looking at it intently before picking up a quill and scribbling down some figures on a small piece of paper.
"In Westerosi, Three million, seven hundred and seventy-four thousand, six hundred and four, gold dragons." Noho said and Willas looked to Wyman who was smiling at hearing the amount.
"And what is needed to bring this account under our control?" he asked.
"A signature from Gorys Edoryen will suffice." Noho said.
"Once he signs, he cannot gain access to it from that point?" he asked looking at both the banker and the red-haired Gorys.
"He cannot." Noho said.
"And as per my agreement with his grace, I'm free to go my way?" Gorys said and Willas nodded.
It took a few moments for the papers to be drawn up and Gorys signed them immediately. Willas then watching as two guards came in to remove him from the building, the man's business ties to the Iron Bank now terminated and his presence no longer welcome. As soon as he was gone, Noho turned to both him and Wyman with a smile now on his face.
"And how can the Iron Bank be of service to the crown?" Noho asked.
Willas spoke to the man about the crown's debt finding out that it was a little over half a million, which left them with more than three million gold dragons and put the crown in the most favorable position it had been in for years. He knew that they owed the Lannisters close to a million and his own family almost as much but even were they to pay them both off immediately, which they would not, they'd still have over a million gold dragons in the accounts.
After receiving notes of credit and making himself a signatory on the account, he waited while Wyman was taken into another room. The Lord of White Harbor coming back far too soon for him to have done any business and Willas finding out as they walked back to their manse that he would need to return on the morrow. Ser Richard was nowhere to be seen when they returned and Willas could only hope the man's business wouldn't take too long. He was more than eager to return to King's Landing as soon as possible.
"You think we'll be departing soon?" he asked Wyman as they sat down to eat later that night.
"Before week's end I'd imagine, my own business should be concluded on the morrow with any luck and as for Ser Richard." Wyman said with a shrug.
"Do you have any idea why he's with us, I mean other than that vagueness about getting a present for the king?" he asked.
"No, the man holds to his secrets as a maiden does her modesty." Wyman said and Willas chuckled.
"The trade, what his grace suggested, you think it beneficial?" he asked.
"Most beneficial, the routes alone will earn us coin, and should we expand as much as I hope, the possibilities are endless." Wyman said smiling.
He was about to ask more about it when he heard the whistle and then the footsteps and looked up to ser Ser Richard almost strolling into the room. The Master of Whisperers taking a seat and reaching out to pour himself some of the peach brandy before sipping it and then swallowing it down, only to refill his glass and sit back in his seat.
"A good day?" he asked curiously.
"Most good, I found the king's present." Richard said with a large smile on his face.
"So after Lord Wyman finishes his business we can leave?" he asked.
"After that and I find a cage fit to hold a slippery bird." Richard said before laughing "A very slippery bird indeed."
King's Landing 298 AC.
Dany.
Seeing her nephew lay so still was disheartening and not something she enjoyed, nor was she able to put on as straight a face as Tyrion or Aemon were. Shiera had not been allowed to visit Jae at all and though Dany felt for her aunt, she could understand it. Tyrion having told her what had occurred and while she didn't blame her for it, she had found she was in the minority on that. Shiera though perhaps blamed herself far more than anyone other than perhaps the queen did. Her aunt had gone into her shell almost and barely left her room other than to go to Aemon's.
As for her uncle, he'd spent days going over books and had found nothing. Dany having walked in on him more than once looking at a strange book with barely any writing in it. When she'd asked him about it he'd told her that it was a book of many names. Some calling it Signs and Portents and others Deanys's Journal, both she and Tyrion had been most eager to read it once he'd confirmed that it was indeed the book The Dreamer wrote. Both of them disappointed to find that it contained very few actual words other than what seemed to be the secret to hatching dragon's eggs.
"This is different than how my own children were born." she said as she, Tyrion, and Shiera all sat in Aemon's room, her aunt and uncle having asked them both to join them.
"How so?" Aemon asked curiously.
"I used wildfire." she said to a shocked look from Tyrion.
"Why?" her brother asked.
"It was what the vision showed me, I fired an arrow and set it on fire and then had to walk into it. I even lost my hair because of it." she said looking to her aunt to confirm it and finding she was looking off into the distance.
"You were bald?" Tyrion asked smirking.
"A baldy fucker, Sandor called me." she said and her brother started laughing as did she.
When they stopped she handed the book back to Aemon and Tyrion asked him more about it, Aemon not having any answers as to why there were no more words in it than the ones they could see.
"It's so he can't see them." Shiera said, Dany looked to her as her aunt spoke the first words she had since they'd arrived in the room.
"Who?" Tyrion asked.
"Bloodraven." Aemon said bidding them both to come closer.
"While I've not been able to actually find a way to help Jaehaerys, none of us truly can." Aemon said and she looked worriedly at Tyrion "I've instead been reading up on our uncle, though not even the books know him as well as Shiera does."
Dany looked to her aunt who seemed almost resigned to speaking about a man she knew had been her love once. Shiera having only briefly mentioned him to her while they were together in Essos, yet the truth of how she'd felt about him was very clear to her.
"Brynden and I were fascinated by magic. What it could do, what it could be used for, the limits of knowledge notwithstanding of course. We read all we could, looked where we could, and given Brynden's gifts soon found more than perhaps any had before us or at least any since the doom." Shiera said.
"Gifts?" Tyrion asked.
"Brynden just like Jae was a warg, a powerful one, I believe it's in the blood. Just as we are connected to dragons because of Valyria, Brynden is connected to the old magic because his family were of the First Men." Shiera said.
"I don't understand." Dany said looking to her uncle.
"We believe that magic knows magic, Dany, it seeks it out, the blood itself searching for it and looking to join it with its own. The dragons are magical creatures and while they existed magic existed but once they died out so did it." Aemon said.
"Magic was gone?" Tyrion said and Aemon nodded.
"But the blood remained and it sought to find more magic, called out for it, and while some later tried to bring the dragons back, others took a different route." Aemon said.
She looked at her uncle and her aunt, both of them speaking of magic as if it was a living breathing thing and she found herself to be lost once more.
"My father sought to bring magic back, oh that wasn't the only reason he lay with so many women but it was a reason all the same. His blood compelled him to seek out other magical blood, to restore what was lost when the dragons went away. My mother and Bryndens's both had magic in their own blood and my father was drawn to it." Shiera said.
"What does this have to do with Jae?" Tyrion asked.
"Magic has a price, a cost, one we're not certain of the true extent of. Shiera believes it led Bloodraven down a dark path, that he sought more and more of it, and the more he gained the more powerful he became and the more afraid." Aemon said.
"Afraid? Why would he be afraid if he has so much power?" Dany asked confused.
"Because no matter how much you possess, there is always one who has more, one who is stronger than you or more skilled or more handsome or beautiful. One who has what you have not and while in life this can manifest itself in more ways than one, in magic it's far more simple." Shiera said.
"There is something else too." Aemon said.
"What?" Tyrion said.
"For everything, there is an opposite, day and night, good and evil, beautiful and ugly." Aemon said.
"Light and Dark." Shiera said looking at her.
Dany looked to Tyrion who seemed just as lost as she, the things her aunt and uncle were saying made no sense, and yet in some ways they did too.
"Bloodraven is dark?" she asked.
Yet she received no confirmation or answer only Aemon telling her that Bloodraven and Jae were on opposite sides of things. That they were bound to fight against each other and that only one of them would survive that fight, whomever it was would then find that that fight was only the beginning of what needed to be done. She left the room far more confused than she had when she had entered it. Dany then making her way to her nephew's and finding both Margaery and the young girl Joy were on the bed laying by his side.
She didn't stay long or disturb them too much, but she reached out her hand and took his own and held it for a few moments as she spoke to him. Dany telling him that she missed him and asking him to come back, that they needed him here for what was to come. The last part she said quietly in her mind and didn't speak aloud before she kissed his cheek and walked from the room. As she slept later on that night she dreamt of a lone red-eye and silver hair and she woke up shivering as she swore that she heard a man's laugh ring out across the night.
King's Landing 298 AC.
Genna.
She had thrown herself into her duties, taking over the running of the Red Keep and the household so that Margaery had one less thing to worry about. It was not a selfless act on her part if the truth was told, Genna finding she needed to keep busy so she didn't worry too much. It was something that came upon her more when she was idle, the worry and concern, the thoughts that Jae may not wake up, or that even worse may occur.
Try as she might she couldn't stop her mind from going to the darkest places, finding that the words of comfort she used with the children or with Margaery herself were words spoken and yet not words she truly believed. Or to be more precise words that she believed less and less each day he didn't' wake. Genna had done her best to stay positive, especially around the children, Willem, Tion, and Walder all showing their worry as did Tommen each and every day. Yet it was Martyn and Joy who were taking it the worst of all, the latter no great surprise but the former had been, or was to her at least.
Kevan and Dorna and even Lancel had expected it as Martyn idolized Jae, Genna listening as her brother told her that her nephew wished to be as much like him as he could be and it was why he practiced so. But while Martyn showed his concern with periods of quietness and distracted thoughts, Joy handled her own exactly how she'd expected. Her niece was willful, angry, uncooperative, and unwilling to listen and Genna despite her frustration with her couldn't fault her in the very least. She'd not agreed with the children being denied the chance to see him, had felt it would have been better for them all and Jae perhaps most of all, to allow them into the room but she'd been overruled.
So when she'd found out that Joy had found a way, that her clever little niece had not taken no for an answer, it had made her laugh out loud for the first time in almost a moon. She'd been happy when Margaery had allowed Joy to come and go as she pleased and had sworn that she'd seen a change in Jae each time the girl was near. Though perhaps that was her hope and not the truth of things.
As the days went by with no change, her mind went elsewhere until finally, she could put it off no longer and so she demanded and was given the chance to go and speak with the trout. Jaime giving in after she'd made it clear it wasn't a request and now she walked down the halls and across the yard before heading down to the cells and the woman housed within. Her guards walked with her and soon enough she was stood outside the woman's cell, Genna annoyed to see it was not the black one's where she belonged that they'd sent her to.
"Five minutes." the jailer said and she shook her head.
"I'll take as long as I wish, you have a problem with that then go speak to the Lord Hand." she said as he opened the door and let her inside.
The woman looked far older than her years, her face more drawn and haggard than Genna had expected and it reminded her more of her crazy sister than herself. She looked as if she hadn't slept a true night's sleep in some time and yet despite it she was alert and she saw how her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened when Catelyn saw her. Genna noticed how she took in her crimson and gold and any attempt at the pretense that she'd have made to be anyone else would no doubt fail, not that she had intended to be anyone but herself here today.
"I expected more." Genna said dismissively as she gave Catelyn Tully the once over.
"How dare you." Catelyn replied and Genna was glad to see that her pride still remained.
"I dare because unlike you I've kept my wits. I wasn't fool enough to pull on the dragon's tail, nor was I hypocrite enough to claim myself to be a woman of faith."
"I am a woman of faith." Catelyn said loudly.
"Really, you think the Mother will forgive you for trying to kill a child?".
"A bastard." Cat said loudly.
"No trout, I'm afraid you're very much mistaken, even your true and pious High Septon accepts the truth of his birth. Not that it matters, a child is a child and all are innocent in the eyes of the Mother, or did your Septa not teach you that."
"He posed a risk to my house." Cat said.
"Did he indeed? The very house that's in the best position it's been in since it wore a crown itself? Or perhaps you mean the House of Fish that you come from and if so then it was you and the other little trouts that posed the true threat to that one."
"He wanted to usurp my son." Cat said looking at her.
"You truly are a fool, it's no wonder that Brandon Stark had no wish to marry you or that Eddard couldn't wait to set you aside." she said with a smile.
"You lie, Brandon loved me."
"And yet he married another, had a child with another, who usurped who Lady fish?" Genna said.
"I…the boy, it was all the boy."
"The boy you tried to kill, the brother you tried to take away from your children. Let me tell you about that boy, Trout. That boy is worth all your children, a hundred of them, a thousand of them. That boy has naught but kindness and compassion in him, he cares for others far more than he does himself and puts them above his own feelings each and every time. Not for favor or as part of some plan as you would claim it so, but because it's who he is. Unlike you Trout that boy has a heart that's full of love, not hate, not petty jealousy and fears that have no grounding in truth."
She moved closer to her, her voice now softer as she did so.
"I should have you dragged from here, paraded through the streets, and let the people know what you tried to do to their king, you'd see it then Catelyn Tully, or is it Baelish." she snorted "You'd see what they think of that boy you hate so and trust me the sentence they'd impose on you would be one you well deserved. I should do so but I won't because your fate is not mine to decide. No, it's that boy who'll judge you and find you guilty, think on that when you sleep tonight or if you sleep tonight."
Genna turned to walk away and then stopped, turning back and seeing the look of abject fear that was now on Catelyn's face.
"Had you truly been a pious woman, a woman of faith, a woman with even an ounce of motherly love inside of you, was that truly who you were then you'd have seen what we all saw when we looked at Jon. You'd have seen a boy that any of us would have been proud to call our own. You could have had it all, his love, his adoration, and his support, had you had but one ounce of love inside of you, one ounce of kindness that you'd have been willing to show him.
He'd have fought the entire world to make you happy, that's who that boy is, and that's who you tried to take away from us, and that's who I damn you for. The worst of the seven hells awaits you Trout and no one has ever deserved it more."
She walked out from the cell and as the doors closed she leaned up against the wall and tried to compose herself. Never before had she felt anger the likes of which had just came over her, Genna looking down to see where her fingers had dug into the palms of her hand and where in one or two places they'd broken the skin. As she took a deep breath she closed her eyes and then opened them before she began to move and soon enough she found herself outside the King's Chambers.
"How is he?" she asked as she walked in, Margaery sitting by the bed and Joy and Balerion leaning against Ghost on top of it.
Beyond the Wall 298 AC.
Bloodraven.
He scrambled and tried to close back up the walls, fixing them one brick at a time and finding almost as soon as he did so another came crashing down. The words his kinsman had spoken had sent a shiver down his spine and he felt a fear that he'd not felt in years, Brynden was not used to being the one who was afraid. Even seeing his enemy to the North had never made him feel this way and as he tried desperately to keep his kinsman contained, he thought back to when he'd seen the truth of what was to come.
Their house would fall, the vision had been clear enough in that and so he'd done all he could to see that it would not come about. He'd killed his brother though not truly with his own hands, his nephews though he couldn't be certain it was any arrow he'd fired that had seen them fall. True enough he'd tried to end Aegor but he'd been left with no choice had he not? It had cost him an eye and yet even that he'd seen was to come, if not quite how it was to occur.
He had done it all for them and they'd cast him aside, he'd given them his blood, his eye, his love and they'd sent him to rot away at the end of the world. Brynden finding his bitterness rising like a fire which kept him warm from the cold. He'd wondered why he'd not seen this end, why he'd not known this was to come, and he knew then his magic was not strong enough for him to truly see. It was then the voices and the dreams came, the call from a place even further North than here, and Brynden began to make plans that he knew may never come to pass.
How many years passed he could not tell, but he felt his power grow, the deal he'd made with the old god's servant was one he never intended to keep and one which would serve him and not them. Time was like a river to him and he'd learned how it truly ran and once you knew where to go, how to travel along the waters, nothing stood in your way. Forward, backward or simply standing still he'd done it all, and then he'd seen the thing in the cold, the thing that sought his end but would never end him and finally he saw the one who would.
It was useless, beyond hope, the walls were tumbling down far quicker than he could rebuild them, the prison hadn't been enough and his kinsman was breaking free and would soon be coming for him. A destiny that he'd tried so very hard to avoid was close to being inevitable unless he acted and acted soon.
"Leaf." he called out.
"Acorn."
His words drifted in the wind and none answered and so he closed his eyes to see and saw them all sitting around a small fire that burned in the cave. Brynden opened his eyes and called out to them once more and still, the children didn't come. He needed the paste and he needed it now and so he reached out and called the raven to him, the sound of its wings as it flew through the cave seeming far louder than they should. It took him some time to eat enough, the raven feeding him as if he was its chick and Brynden feeling his strength begin to grow as he closed his eyes and reached out to any who'd listen.
He felt his kin, old and young, known and unknown to him, Shiera standing out like a beacon but closed to him, Aemon there but not, and Daenerys just outside his reach. The dwarf forced him away, not allowing him even close and he knew the one he wished for most was lost to him forever now, not even his prison would hold him back. So Brynden took to the air once more, his ravens flying and yet not, North, South, East and West, a small girl, an older woman, a young man, all mere flickering lights and soon enough he was back in familiar places.
"
A thousand eyes and one." the voice whispered as it slept, the patch no longer on his eye and the hollow space seeming as familiar as his own.
Brynden began to send the dreams, to break down the walls of the mind, and then he beckoned him to come his way. It would not be the same, the man's magic was weak and not true but better to be out and begone than to await the fate that headed his way.
"
Blow the Horn, Blow the horn and bring me to you," he said softly as he showed the pirate dreams that would never come to pass.
King's Landing 298 AC.
Margaery.
She changed his clothing alone, Joy having left early that morning, and Margaery already missing her company. As worried as she was about Jae, Joy had a way of almost ignoring it or more of making her feel as if she could. Margaery listening on as she told Jae story after story, as she spoke of the Yentures to come and of Apples, Winter, Ghost, and Rhaenix too. When she'd first found the girl in their bed she'd thought she'd seen something in her husband's expression and she swore that she heard him make sounds that he made with no one else.
At times when she touched his cheek or leaned against his chest, she had felt it too, as if he was awake and was watching her. She'd been certain it was only a matter of time, that any day now he'd wake and so had been more than happy to have Joy come back and spend time with him and with her. Sure that together they'd bring him back home only to find the days had gone by without him waking. It was now four that had passed since that first night and each one of them had only made her lose that faith a little more.
"Joy will be back later, Jae, I'm sure she'll have another story for us to enjoy."
"Aye, I like that one best of all, was that me you were telling her about?"
"It was wasn't it, gods, was that how you saw me?"
She spoke as if he was answering her questions and she knew it was something that she'd picked up from Joy. Margaery finishing dressing him and readying to wash and feed him before people came by to spend some time with them both. It was hard, waking up beside him and then dressing and cleaning him and then herself. Bathing only when someone she trusted was in the room and eating only when she had company that forced her to.
Her sleep was fitful, little sounds would wake her up and she'd found herself calling out his name more than once. Loras and the rest of the Kingsguard had quickly gotten used to the difference between her tones, knowing when she was worried and when it was nothing for them to be bothered about. Some days were almost like a daze to her, like a dream she couldn't quite remember and she wondered how she seemed on those days to any who saw her. Did they think she was losing her mind? Was she? It was hard to tell and the ideas she was having would suggest that she may very well be.
"Am I mad, Jae?"
"What I intend to do, is it mad?"
"Or is it what you truly need?"
She asked him and just as she thought it would be the same and that she'd receive no sign or no reply, she swore she saw his hand move. Hurrying to the bed, she grabbed his hand and brought it to her face, and then she closed her eyes.
"It is what I must do, isn't it?" she said hopefully and she felt her cheek being touched, startling her so much that she cried out loudly and dropped his hand to the bed.
Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan both came rushing inside, Margaery now sitting on the bed reaching desperately for her husband's hand, a smile on her face as she turned to look at the two knights. When she told them what she wished to do both of them made ready to talk her out of it, Margaery quickly rising to her feet and looking intently at them both.
"I am your queen and this is my command, see that it's made ready." she said firmly and leaving no room for question.
It took them some time and she waited by the side of the bed, she'd hurriedly dressed Jae in clothes that he'd not worn in weeks. She struggled to get his boots on, having to almost force them over his feet and she knew that his coat was barely buttoned but in her excited state she cared not. When the Kingsguard returned it was all of them and not just two and soon enough she was being helped to the carriage. The ride itself not taking long and Rhaenix was already waiting for them when they got there.
Margaery looked on as they carried Jae over to the dragon, as they lay him down beside his sister and she could see the doubt and worry in their faces. What did they think was going to happen she wondered? Did they think Rhaenix would harm him? That she could? If so then just looking at the dragon would show that could never be. How large Rhaenix was she'd not been able to truly ascertain, she was as large if not larger than a Pinnacle ship and her head alone was as big as the carriage they'd arrived in. Yet she and they watched the dragon place it on Jae's chest and it was done with such gentleness that she wondered if the weight was even felt.
"Your grace, are you sure about this?" Ser Barristan asked and Margaery nodded as they looked and waited.
Margaery then feeling her legs moving without her consent when she saw his hand rise up to touch the dragons face.
?????
Jaehaerys Targaryen.
The woman led him down through cobbled streets and soon he was walking on a dark paved road, the night moonless and the darkness only lightened by the white of the wolf's fur. He hurried after what he assumed to be both the wolf and the woman, finding them to always stay the same distance away from him no matter if he ran or walked. After some time he felt the rain begin to fall and then the darkness began to lighten, Jae watching as the sun rose in front of him and began to reflect off the buildings he now found himself surrounded by.
High into the clouds they rose, their stone polished so smoothly that they looked to be carved out of one piece rather than the many stones most buildings were made from. Jae looked around and found that he now couldn't see either the woman or the white wolf. Instead, there were many other people walking through the streets of what he now knew could only be Valyria. He heard rather than saw the dragons, their roars, and their happy trills letting him know they flew somewhere high above him.
When he felt his hand be taken he almost shouted out, Jae looking down to see the silver-haired girl pulling his hand as she began to walk ahead of him.
"Who are you?" he asked to no reply other than a now more urgent pull on his hand.
Knowing there was little else he could do and not wishing to just stand around and hope the answers came to him, he followed after the little girl who smiled at him when he did so. Jae took the chance to look at her more clearly, her silver hair and deep purple eyes marked her clearly as a Valyrian, and yet there was something familiar about her too, something he couldn't quite place. She led him down the smooth paved roads and Jae looked around to see the sheer number of people who were out and about, estimating the city to be even fuller than King's Landing was.
How long he walked with the girl he couldn't tell, it seemed like they'd covered a lot of ground, and yet he didn't feel as if he'd been walking very long at all. The large building she stopped in front of was bigger than the entire Red Keep and yet it wasn't even close to being the largest one around. Jae hearing the girl giggle as she let go of his hand and ran up the steps that led to a large gate.
"Wait, come back." he shouted after her but she didn't turn or stop, and then he swore she just seemed to disappear through the still unopened gates.
Taking the steps two at a time he soon found himself standing in front of the gates and almost fell to the ground when he saw the symbol carved into them. The three-headed dragon was red on a black base and he knew then that this had been his family's home. Reaching out to touch it he found himself almost falling and when he stopped himself from doing so and looked around, he found he was now on the other side of the gates. As he walked through a large garden that was even more beautifully laid out than the ones in Highgarden, Jae began to hear voices and moved towards them.
He saw a tall silver-haired man speaking to two women who could only be related to him, both women dressed very differently. One wore ringmail and bore a sword on her hip, the other wore the most beautiful dress he'd ever seen and was laughing at something the man said. Jae moved towards them only for them to seem to fade away the closer he got and so he continued on and moved further through the gardens. Soon enough he heard even more voices and found they came from a small grove and so he moved towards it.
Upon entering it he saw an old man with braided silver hair sitting and writing in a book while beside him a small slim old woman stood, both of them looking over what the man had written. Then just as with the others, they faded away from him as soon as he moved towards them. On and on he walked through the gardens and then he saw the girl once more, this time she was laughing as a slightly plump man chased after her and called out her name.
"
Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra, I'm going to catch you my little delight." the man called out to the girls increasing laughter.
The more people he saw the more he began to recognize them, Daeron The Young Dragon, Aegon the Unlikely, his great grandfather and namesake, Jaehaerys the second. Each part of the garden almost seeming to be yet another place where one of his ancestors took up space and each time he moved towards any of them he found them fading from view. By the time he reached the garden closest to the palace itself, he was about to give up any hope that they were anything more than apparitions or phantoms of his mind. Jae knew he would have if he'd not seen the white wolf and the dark-haired woman once again.
"Jae, this way." she called out and whether it was the sound of her voice which allowed him to truly place her or the fact that the sun seemed to dim ever so slightly, Jae found himself running after his mother as she walked into a section of the garden that was surrounded by high hedges.
He stopped as soon as he ran past them and into the clearing, looking to see them all sitting down under what was the largest Weirwood tree he'd ever seen. His father, mother, and grandmother were speaking while beside them Elia spoke to two silver-haired men and a small and beautiful dark-haired girl. Rhaenys looked his way and smiled before she turned to Egg beside her and pointed in his direction while Viserys moved to speak to his mother.
Jae moved quickly towards them and almost screamed out as with each step he took the place he was in began to change. The sun stopped shining as brightly, the grass beneath his feet began to turn to stone and the white bark of the Weirwood began to turn dark. He called out to his mother, his father, to his grandmother and his uncle, to Elia, Egg, and finally to Rhaenys, his words echoing around a much different place.
"Let me stay, let me stay…" he shouted out, his voice pained as he fell to his knees and onto the hard rock beneath his feet.
How long he stayed kneeling there and how many tears he shed he didn't know but was it not for the sound of a woman's voice singing he'd not have had the strength to rise to his feet. Jae wiped his eyes and followed the sound of the woman's voice and soon found himself to be walking through the keep at Dragonstone. Down corridor after corridor he walked, each one leading him closer until he came to a room with an open door and saw a silver-haired girl singing a song as she wrote into a book.
"You came." she said happily when she saw him "I knew you would."
"Who are you?" he asked.
"You know who I am and that's not the question you need to ask Jaehaerys, the question is who are you?" the girl asked looking at him.
"I'm..I'm lost.." he said softly.
"I know, but you have to lose yourself before you can be found, do you not?"
"Where am I?" he asked moving into the room.
"You're here, silly." she said with a melodic giggle.
"But I'm not supposed to be here am I?"
"You were always supposed to be here, it's only from here you can go there." she said pointing to the window.
He followed her hand and saw the Red Keep and then the Dragonpit, Rhaenix, Margaery, Ser Arthur, and Ser Barristan all around something on the ground, and then as he looked beyond them he swore he saw the gates of the palace in Valyria too.
"I want to go home." he said looking to her.
"But where is your home, Jaehaerys, is it where you live or where you're from?" she asked.
"I don't know." he said.
"As good an answer as any, one day you will. Until that day comes you need to read this, you'll find the answers you seek inside." she said handing him her journal before stepping up from her seat and walking to another door in the room and opening it, Jae seeing a bright light shining through it.
"Don't go." he said looking to her.
"We'll meet again, Jaehaerys, for now, read the song it'll explain some of what you need to know." she said.
"What song?" he asked.
"Open the book" she said and he looked down to see the writing on the page.
"Who are you?" he asked as she smiled at him before she walked through the door.
He sat down on the seat that she'd just left and looked down at the page, the words of the song written clearly.
One dream, one soul, one prize
One goal, one golden glance of what should be
It's a kind of magic
One shaft of light that shows the way
No mortal man can win this day
It's a kind of magic
The bell that rings inside your mind
Is challenging the doors of time
It's a kind of magic
The waiting seems eternity
The day will dawn of sanity
Is this a kind of magic?
There can be only one
This rage that lasts a thousand years
will soon be gone
This flame that burns inside of me
I'm hearing secret harmonies
It's a kind of magic
The bell that rings inside your mind
Is challenging the doors of time
This rage that lasts a thousand years
Will soon be, will soon be, will soon be gone
This is a kind of magic
There can be only one.
The light was blinding as he closed the book over, Jae looked at it as it shined through the door that the girl had left open, as he rose to his feet he heard the sound of a bell ring out and he walked into the light.
She was In his arms as soon as he did so, her lips on his cheek as she kissed him repeatedly and Jae looked up into her brown eyes and saw the tears as they fell down her face. His fingers brushed them away as his wife's smile showed that it wasn't sadness that made them fall.
"Margaery." he said softly as she kissed his lips.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Boruko Uzumaki couldn't believe was she was seeing. She had come home early because Mitsuki parent suddenly had a project for them so the sleepover was canceled. She had come home but no one greeted her at the door. She looked around and figured her parents must be out because no one responded to her calls. However, as she walked passed her parent's room she started hearing sounds. She peeked through the crack in the slightly adjured door only to see her Moms on their knees, blindfolded and bound in rope in front of Sarada. Both of them were obediently following her commands and licking Saradas long dick. Sarada had the most satisfied look on her face. Boruko watched in horror as her parents lick her best friend's meat futa dick like it was ice cream on a hot summer's day.
“You two are excited tonight.”
“Yes, Mistress we haven’t gotten to spend a night with you in ages.” Hinata moaned before kissing Sarada’s cock head.
“The kids are away so please honor your pets with your perfect dick all night!” Naruko added before wrapping her soft lips around Saradas balls
Sarada chuckles smugly before saying “Good job getting them out of the house for the night. I haven’t been able to enjoy your pussy at all Naruko. I Fuck your wife at school every day.”
“Thank you, mistress. I’m so jealous of Hinatas proximity to you. Please remind my pussy why you are its owner!” Naruko begged
“Oh, you're giving all the right answers come here!” Sarada shouts as she throws Naruko onto the bed before penetrating her deeply.
“Og Gods Yes! Fuck me, Mistress! I love it! Your big cock was made for me. Fuck me! Take as much as you like and make me your forever!! AH AH AAA“
“How does it feel to be enslaved by a schoolgirl's cock when you are a grown married woman?” Sarada asks as watches Naruko’s back arch as she cums her brains out.
“It's shameful. I know I shouldn't but every time I get a whiff of your dick I crumble. You make me feel So good! I need to thank Sasuke and Sakura for giving us our goddess. I’m where I'm meant to be! Under you Sarada!” She moans in whoreship
“You always know what to say to get me going. Here's your reward” Sarada says as she bottoms out inside Naruko and fills her with cum.
Boruko watches breathlessly as her best friend fucks her mother's already cumming pussy. She can't watch any more of this. Her own dick now forming a huge tent in her pants. Boruko sneaks back out of the house. With no wear to go, she goes to a friend's dorm room and spends the night there. While there she snuck into the bathroom and shamefully masturbate to get her dick to sleep. Borukos mind raced the whole night and she barely got any sleep but by the morning she knew she had to confront Sarada.
That day at school Boruko asked her friend to meet up with her at lunch. Sarada cheerfully agreed and the two of them met up in an empty study hall. As they stood there Boruko tried to figure out what to say. She stared at her friend in a whole new light. She was lithe and toned but not voluptuous like her mothers. She compares Sarada to her two moms Sakura and Sasuke feel her dick twitch at the image of the two Milfs. She glanced down at Sarada's groin and remembered what was hidden there. That big member turned her mothers into slaves. Would she use it on Boruko now that they were alone? If Boruko fucked her back would she be able to free her parents of the seductive spell? What could she do?
“You wanted to talk but you've been nervously staring at me for like 5 minutes. What's up?“
“I saw you! I saw you with my moms!“ Boruko blirts out
Sarada's eyes go wide. “Oh…wow. I figured this would happen eventually.“ Sarada just kinda awkwardly scratches the back of her head.
“So what did you think” Sarada asks bluntly.
“What? What do I think?? Boruko doesn’t even know how to respond to that question.
Sarada pushes forward into Boruko. Boruko was a lot fuller than Sarada who was very lean.
“Did you like what you saw? Do you want to join your moms?” Sarada whispers into her ear. She presses her hand onto Boruto's pants and can feel the outline of her cock. Boruko tries to forumate retort as she stares into Sarada predatory gaze. Boruko centers herself and glares back at Sarada. The dick pulses definitely at Sarada's touch.
This four-eyed bitch is gonna fuck my moms and now she's gonna fuck me? Fuck her! I’m not a pushover like…Not finishing that thought.
“No. Maybe I should bend you over here and show you want a real dick can do. And then you leave my family alone!” Boruko bites back finding her spirit.
The two stare at each other before Sarada grins. “That's my girl,” Sarada says before putting an arm on Borukos shoulder. Boruko is still thoroughly done with this bitch.
“Okay. I understand you're angry but I can make it up to you?” Sarada says trying to calm Boruko down.
“How?! How can you possibly make this right?!”
“Do you trust me?”
“I did”
Sarada winces at that one.
“Ouch damn okay that's fair. But come to my house tomorrow night! It's perfect it's a friday.”
“Why should I? Why Shouldn’t I…Do something while you just fuck my moms”
“Boruko I understand you're upset but did I look like I was hurting your parents?”
Boruko takes a long pausing forcing herself to revisit the night in question. She remembered her moms moaning in delight as they worshiped her Sarada giant cock. Boruko suddenly blushed heavily.
“I wouldn't describe it as hurting them…” Boruko admits begrudgingly
“Just give me one chance to make this right. If I fail…do whatever you're gonna do” Sarada said pleadingly looking into Borukos eyes
Boruko thought about it for a while. It's not like she actually knew what she could do in this situation.
“Fine. One Chance”
Sarada lit up and hugged her friend who cringed through the whole experience.
“Trust me this will be everything you could ask for.”
Boruko spent the next 24 hours in hase unable to focus on school. She spent another night at her friend's place since she couldn’t bear to look her parents in the eyes. Finally, the time came. Sadaea skipped school that day which was a very rare occurrence so Boruko just saunters to her house nervously.
Sarada greets her with a smile and invites her inside.
“So what is going to make me forgive you?”
“Follow me upstairs and I'll show you?”
Boruko nervously followed. Constantly looking over her shoulder to make sure this wasn't some kind of a trap. This house that she had spent huge amounts of her childhood in was suddenly so sinister. Sarada walked her up to the master bedroom.
“Just look in the master bedroom and if The gift I’ve prepared isn’t enough then nothing is,” Sadaea said with a hint of mischief in the air.
Boruko gave her an annoyed look to hide her fear. The doors opened and Borukos eyes went wide. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. In front of her bound and gagged was Saradas mother Sasuke. Her knees were spread open and her arms were behind her back. She wore only black undergarments. Her hip wiggled enticingly a rotary bead was attached to her panties. The dark wet state in the middle told a story on their own. As they opened the door it sounded like she tried to speak but her mouth was gagged. Over her eyes was a sleeping eye mask.
“Does this make it up to you?” Sarada whispered into her ear.
“Wha…” was all Boruko could let out as she processed the sight in front of her.
“This how I make it up to you. I’m giving you my mom. She's all yours do with as you please. I turned your mothers into my pets.” Sarada says into her ear as she sensually whispers out the final words “It's only fair”
“And who says I want this?” Boruko studders out weakly unable to turn away from the sight in front of her.
“I think this little lady does,” Sarada says as she slides her hand across Borukos pants and the incredibly hard outline of her big futa dick.
Boruko gasped softly at the touch. She couldn’t believe how hard she was right now. It felt like her dick was gonna rip her pants off.
“I remember how you’ve looked at my mom growing up. It's the same way I looked at yours. We both wanted to fuck those Hot milfs so badly it hurt, Now your chance. You two don't want to be the only ones left out do you.” Sarada whispered into her ear
It was then that Boruko noticed another sound from behind her. The sound of a woman moaning could be heard through the doorway.
“Oh, you finally noticed. Yea, there's a reason I can only give you Sasuke…” Sarada said they turned around and opened the door.
Inside the guest room at the large king-sized bed Borukos little sister Himawari had her 11-inch dick hilted into the soping wet pussy of Sakura as she pounded into the milf.
“AWUGH! Ms.Himawari. Does my pussy feel good! Please! I want to please Mommy!” Sakura moaned whorishly for the young girl.
“Yes, Sakura! Your pussy just how I like it.” Himawari chuckles cheerfully
“Thank you! My pussy is made for you so please continue fucking it!” Sakura moans
“What a good girl you are,” Himawari says sweetly like she's talking to a child.
“I am! I am your good girl” Sakura moans as her back arches and she cums but Himawari doesn’t seem to care as she continues her assault. Sakura feels her womb wrap around Himawari's dick like it's in love. The shame of being dominated by a girl so much younger has been fucked out of her repeatedly.
Boruko watches her sister fucks Sakura. This isn't the sex lovers have. Her sister is fucking Sakura like she's a toy to play with, flicking all of the milfs switches for her amusement. Himawari doesn’t seem to even notice them as the two of them are in their own little world.
“Himawari found us out first but she just walked and started asking questions. And once she found out that Your parents were my pets she wanted a pet all her own. She is a willful one. She knew exactly who she wanted. So we went to my place and Himawari jumped my mom immediately on sight.
It was incredible to watch Sakura facefucked into the floor for 10 minutes before her throat was overflowing with cum. After that, she was in no position to resist as Himawari methodically played with pussy until she was begging for it. Ever since then Your sister as owned my mother completely. All that's left is you and Sasuke. So what do you want?” Sarada asked finally as she watched drool drip from her mouth.
Boruko's brain finally reset as she processed everything. Her mind raced with a million thoughts but one thing floated to the top. A memory of her first boner when she saw Sasuke bend over to pick something up. A million images of Sasukes thick voluptuous body that she had hopelessly masturbated to so many times. But a new normal lay before them.
Boruko turned to Sarada “You're a good friend” She said softly as she walked into the bedroom with Sasuke before closing the door.
Sarada grinned devilishly as she returned to her own room where Hinata and Naruko waited on their hands and knees. Dripping wet as they had listened to the conversation and knew their daughter was about to ruin their best friend. They were happy for Sasuke since she was about to understand the pleasure of being the property of a young dom.
After Boruko closed the door she removed all her clothing. She walked up to Sasuke's thick ass and looked down at the lust of her life gift-wrapped for her. Her dick hung out at its full 10 inches as it was so ready to breed. Sasukes body works against her bindings helplessly. Boruko went to remove her mask when she found earbuds in her ear. She pulled them out and listened. The sound of a woman moaning could be heard. It took a second but Boruko realized it was a recording of Sakura, Hinata, and Naruko all praising their new mistresses between them moaning in pleasure. Boruko grins at the perfectly prepared gift.
Boruko pulls off the mask and the earbuds. She sees Sasukes dark eyes focus on her as she can finally see again. Her eyes fill with hope as she Boruko gently removes the gag in her mouth.
“Boruko! Thank the gods you are here. Untie me everyone's gone insane!”
“Sure I can do that…As soon as you admit who you belong to” Brouko says as she dropped her ft 10-inch dick onto Sasukes stomach. Sasuke’s own 6-inch dick is crushed under the weight of the heavy member.
Sasuke stares at the giant dick as it oppressed her own dick. Sasuke's own dick precums from the contact to the hot sweaty member baring down on it. Her pussy was already wet from the vibrator and the recording.
This is what the recording meant. The kids were all grown up now and had outgrown their parents Sasuke realized. Her
“I heard the recording…Did you do that to the other? With this…thing” Sasuke said nervously as the hot cock head rested directly over where her womb was. Perfectly sized she realized.
“No. I'm late to the party. Sarada took my mom's and Himawari took your wife. We’ve all been crushing on the milfs in our lives for a long time. To make it up to me for turning our parents into her sex slaves Sarada gave you and your wife to us. “ Boruko said as she leaned over the milf leering at her voluptuous body.
Sasuke mind raced as she was brought up to speed. The image of this cock on Himawari and Sarada, as they turned the other mom's insides out, sent a shiver through her spine. She had never seen a dick this big before. She imagined her wife's face twisted with pleasure while Himawari's dick bounced in and out of her.
While Sasuke was processing everything Boruko pulled off the vibrator, pushed her panties to the side, and lined her cock head against Sasukes dripping wet hole. Sasuke felt the heat and power radiating off it. Lips to her pussy trembled. She knew they would slide open with no resistance.
Sasuke stared her eyes wide in disbelief as the recording that she had been forced to listen to all day stuck in her head. It promised euphoria if she gave herself to this young woman whom she had seen grow from a child. This girl was now a woman and about to turn Sasuke into her pet. She hated that precum dribbled down her dick in anticipation. Could she resist this?
“I've never seen that look on your face before. I wonder what other expressions you can make.” Boruko said as she plunged into Sasukes pussy. Boruko is immediately rewarded with Sasukes face growing lewder and lewder as her eyes dilate and her mouth makes a perfect O shape as she lets out a moan.
Borukos dick slider deeper than anything had before. The thoroughly teased and warmed-up Sasuke stood no chance as she felt her pussy suck Borukos dick greedily as it took her more than anything else. She had no idea that Borukos dick had grown into a perfect bitch breaker but she was complaining. How could she complain as she is struck with a pleasure she never imagined? Her insides tremble as Boruko fills her. Borukos dick doesn't stop until it reaches her womb anding more euphoria through her but it didn't stop. Boruko kept plunging deeper crushing Sasukes Womb. Sasuke feels her womb submit next as it accepts the tip of the girl's perfect dick.
Sasuke knew it was over like that. This dick touched her womb and filled her perfectly.
She was Boruko's property now. Her Wife belongs to Himawari and her best friends belong to Sarada.
Boruko relished the feeling of Sasukes pussy for a long moment before she let instinct take over and started pounding the helpless milf. Sasuke’s large breasts bounce for Borukos amusement. She had stared at these tits for years and now they were bouncing at her command. The little bit of shame and prise left in Sasuke tried to hide the incredible pleasure Boruko's dick was delivering to her However it was too much for Sasuke. Her mouth hung open letting out the same feral slutting moans that the other milfs made. It was the sound of a woman submitting to the pleasure of the girl.
“Who owns this pussy Sasuke?” Boruko asked mid fucking staring at Sasukes face wrapped in pleasure
“You do! I am Borukos slave now! I am your property! Please use me however you like mistress!” Sasuke moaned out at her owner's command. She followed the words she heard in the recording and praised this new goddess of her body.
“Wow! All four of you are complete pushovers. We should have been doing this for years.” Boruko pressed her hand against her head in wonder. The stoic Sasuke was her sex pet now. “Time to make up for lost time,” Boruka said excitedly grabbing Sasukes fat hips and letting loose
“PLLLEEAASSEEE THANK YOOUUUUU” Sasuke screamed as her mistress got used to her new hole.
In the neighboring room, Sarada listened with her ear against the wall.
“Be quiet I can’t hear properly!” Sarada whispered harshly.
“Yes, Mistress!” Naruko says as she presses her dick into Hinatas Moaning's mouth to silence her. Hinata now bounced on Saradas dick in silence. Sarada pressed her ear against the hole she cut out beforehand and listened to the sounds of Boruko fucking her mother.
Boruko's dick filled her completely with each thrust. Her chest bounced with each brutal strike as the young girl claimed her prize over and over. Every thrust was accentuated with the squelching of her pussy. Boruko was in heaven. Her wildest fantasy was wrapped around her dick declaring herself as Borukos property. It wasn’t long until Boruko was filling up Sasuke’s womb with thick cream sending the milf into a wave of rapturous orgasms.
Sasuke lay there still completely bound as she felt the warm cum filled her. Any doubts fuck out of her. Her world order had changed in a single day. She laid on her back sent to the cusp of consciousness by the power of that orgasm.
Boruko leaned forward and gave Sasuke her first kiss. Sasuke reciprocated deeply as her heart fluttered. Her orgasm-drunk state let her worries and concerns drift away. Her mistress' love for her just filled her with joy
“You don't think we're done yet, do you? We're just getting started.“ Boruka says as she flips Sasuke onto her knees and starts feeling up her beautiful fat ass. Sasuke wants to ask for time to recover from the hardest orgasm in her life but then she feels Mistress's dick pressed against her pussy. Sasuke purs in delight as she feels her body get ready to pleasure its mistress more her Boruko grins contentedly enjoying the view of Sasukes blush ass before penetrating her.
That night, Boruko was going to repeatedly drill her dominance into Sasukes very soul. Her dick was building a new life for itself inside Sasuke. Sarada enjoyed every second of it as she listened to her best friend Dominate her mom with satisfaction.
Her satisfaction was twofold. First of all she was glad for her Friend finally getting the girl of her dreams but more importantly, now the secret was out. They're all in on it and have nothing to hide. She looks down at Borukos and Himawari's moms who were worshiping her cock at this point.
She smiled smugly at the two older women honoring her cock like it was their god. They savor every thick meaty inch. The taste sent shivers down their spines and flooded their minds and pussys. They stared up at Sarada with a pleading look hoping that the schoolgirl would bless them with her mammoth cock.
“Well, now that we don't have to hide there's nothing stopping me from enjoying you two as I please. I hope you are ready to completely live as my slaves.“ Sarada says patting their heads. Hinata and Naruko moan happily as lap up master cum.
“Now Naruko get on your back your daughter got me excited and your womb needs some loving
“Oh God yessss! Split me open with your magnificent cock“ Sarada smiled at the milfs submission as she hilts herself full inside Naruko and brings the woman into a passionate kiss. Hinata smiles as her wife receives their mistress's love. Then gets on her knees and starts Sucking Saradas balls.
Himawari enjoys another night's balls deep inside Sakuara's warm pussy. It's only been 3 days since their relationship started but she couldn't be happier. Every day at school all she can think about is how she's going to run to Sakura and plow her wonderful pussy again. She loved her pretty pink pet.
“I should really tell Boruko about this so she can finally get with Sasuke like she always wanted. “
She looked down and saw Sakura's orgasmic face. The famous doctor blissfully gets her back blown out by the girl. Sakura still can't believe she's let it go this far but every time Himiwari enters her she loses herself to the girl.
“I can tell her tomorrow.“ Himawari said she wrapped her lips around Sakura's nipples while the grown woman moaned her name. She gave causally Sakura the best matting press of her life. The young prodigy fucked Sakura silly.
The following morning the three girls sat around the kitchen table enjoying a freshly made breakfast. Naruko sulks over by the dishes cleaning while the rest of the moms enjoy their own breakfast. Under the table, Hinata, Sakura, and Sasuke bounce their heads up and down on the girl's dick. A healthy breakfast of girl cum was all the slutty milfs could ask for.
That night the next generation surpassed their parents and left those moms blissfully happy. From then on Sarada, Boruko, and Himiwari spent most of their nights at each other houses. They had all the time in the world to do whatever they want with there new milfs.
Boruko Uzumaki couldn't believe was she was seeing. She had come home early because Mitsuki parent suddenly had a project for them so the sleepover was canceled. She had come home but no one greeted her at the door. She looked around and figured her parents must be out because no one responded to her calls. However, as she walked passed her parent's room she started hearing sounds. She peeked through the crack in the slightly adjured door only to see her Moms on their knees, blindfolded and bound in rope in front of Sarada. Both of them were obediently following her commands and licking Saradas long dick. Sarada had the most satisfied look on her face. Boruko watched in horror as her parents lick her best friend's meat futa dick like it was ice cream on a hot summer's day.
“You two are excited tonight.”
“Yes, Mistress we haven’t gotten to spend a night with you in ages.” Hinata moaned before kissing Sarada’s cock head.
“The kids are away so please honor your pets with your perfect dick all night!” Naruko added before wrapping her soft lips around Saradas balls
Sarada chuckles smugly before saying “Good job getting them out of the house for the night. I haven’t been able to enjoy your pussy at all Naruko. I Fuck your wife at school every day.”
“Thank you, mistress. I’m so jealous of Hinatas proximity to you. Please remind my pussy why you are its owner!” Naruko begged
“Oh, you're giving all the right answers come here!” Sarada shouts as she throws Naruko onto the bed before penetrating her deeply.
“Og Gods Yes! Fuck me, Mistress! I love it! Your big cock was made for me. Fuck me! Take as much as you like and make me your forever!! AH AH AAA“
“How does it feel to be enslaved by a schoolgirl's cock when you are a grown married woman?” Sarada asks as watches Naruko’s back arch as she cums her brains out.
“It's shameful. I know I shouldn't but every time I get a whiff of your dick I crumble. You make me feel So good! I need to thank Sasuke and Sakura for giving us our goddess. I’m where I'm meant to be! Under you Sarada!” She moans in whoreship
“You always know what to say to get me going. Here's your reward” Sarada says as she bottoms out inside Naruko and fills her with cum.
Boruko watches breathlessly as her best friend fucks her mother's already cumming pussy. She can't watch any more of this. Her own dick now forming a huge tent in her pants. Boruko sneaks back out of the house. With no wear to go, she goes to a friend's dorm room and spends the night there. While there she snuck into the bathroom and shamefully masturbate to get her dick to sleep. Borukos mind raced the whole night and she barely got any sleep but by the morning she knew she had to confront Sarada.
That day at school Boruko asked her friend to meet up with her at lunch. Sarada cheerfully agreed and the two of them met up in an empty study hall. As they stood there Boruko tried to figure out what to say. She stared at her friend in a whole new light. She was lithe and toned but not voluptuous like her mothers. She compares Sarada to her two moms Sakura and Sasuke feel her dick twitch at the image of the two Milfs. She glanced down at Sarada's groin and remembered what was hidden there. That big member turned her mothers into slaves. Would she use it on Boruko now that they were alone? If Boruko fucked her back would she be able to free her parents of the seductive spell? What could she do?
“You wanted to talk but you've been nervously staring at me for like 5 minutes. What's up?“
“I saw you! I saw you with my moms!“ Boruko blirts out
Sarada's eyes go wide. “Oh…wow. I figured this would happen eventually.“ Sarada just kinda awkwardly scratches the back of her head.
“So what did you think” Sarada asks bluntly.
“What? What do I think?? Boruko doesn’t even know how to respond to that question.
Sarada pushes forward into Boruko. Boruko was a lot fuller than Sarada who was very lean.
“Did you like what you saw? Do you want to join your moms?” Sarada whispers into her ear. She presses her hand onto Boruto's pants and can feel the outline of her cock. Boruko tries to forumate retort as she stares into Sarada predatory gaze. Boruko centers herself and glares back at Sarada. The dick pulses definitely at Sarada's touch.
This four-eyed bitch is gonna fuck my moms and now she's gonna fuck me? Fuck her! I’m not a pushover like…Not finishing that thought.
“No. Maybe I should bend you over here and show you want a real dick can do. And then you leave my family alone!” Boruko bites back finding her spirit.
The two stare at each other before Sarada grins. “That's my girl,” Sarada says before putting an arm on Borukos shoulder. Boruko is still thoroughly done with this bitch.
“Okay. I understand you're angry but I can make it up to you?” Sarada says trying to calm Boruko down.
“How?! How can you possibly make this right?!”
“Do you trust me?”
“I did”
Sarada winces at that one.
“Ouch damn okay that's fair. But come to my house tomorrow night! It's perfect it's a friday.”
“Why should I? Why Shouldn’t I…Do something while you just fuck my moms”
“Boruko I understand you're upset but did I look like I was hurting your parents?”
Boruko takes a long pausing forcing herself to revisit the night in question. She remembered her moms moaning in delight as they worshiped her Sarada giant cock. Boruko suddenly blushed heavily.
“I wouldn't describe it as hurting them…” Boruko admits begrudgingly
“Just give me one chance to make this right. If I fail…do whatever you're gonna do” Sarada said pleadingly looking into Borukos eyes
Boruko thought about it for a while. It's not like she actually knew what she could do in this situation.
“Fine. One Chance”
Sarada lit up and hugged her friend who cringed through the whole experience.
“Trust me this will be everything you could ask for.”
Boruko spent the next 24 hours in hase unable to focus on school. She spent another night at her friend's place since she couldn’t bear to look her parents in the eyes. Finally, the time came. Sadaea skipped school that day which was a very rare occurrence so Boruko just saunters to her house nervously.
Sarada greets her with a smile and invites her inside.
“So what is going to make me forgive you?”
“Follow me upstairs and I'll show you?”
Boruko nervously followed. Constantly looking over her shoulder to make sure this wasn't some kind of a trap. This house that she had spent huge amounts of her childhood in was suddenly so sinister. Sarada walked her up to the master bedroom.
“Just look in the master bedroom and if The gift I’ve prepared isn’t enough then nothing is,” Sadaea said with a hint of mischief in the air.
Boruko gave her an annoyed look to hide her fear. The doors opened and Borukos eyes went wide. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. In front of her bound and gagged was Saradas mother Sasuke. Her knees were spread open and her arms were behind her back. She wore only black undergarments. Her hip wiggled enticingly a rotary bead was attached to her panties. The dark wet state in the middle told a story on their own. As they opened the door it sounded like she tried to speak but her mouth was gagged. Over her eyes was a sleeping eye mask.
“Does this make it up to you?” Sarada whispered into her ear.
“Wha…” was all Boruko could let out as she processed the sight in front of her.
“This how I make it up to you. I’m giving you my mom. She's all yours do with as you please. I turned your mothers into my pets.” Sarada says into her ear as she sensually whispers out the final words “It's only fair”
“And who says I want this?” Boruko studders out weakly unable to turn away from the sight in front of her.
“I think this little lady does,” Sarada says as she slides her hand across Borukos pants and the incredibly hard outline of her big futa dick.
Boruko gasped softly at the touch. She couldn’t believe how hard she was right now. It felt like her dick was gonna rip her pants off.
“I remember how you’ve looked at my mom growing up. It's the same way I looked at yours. We both wanted to fuck those Hot milfs so badly it hurt, Now your chance. You two don't want to be the only ones left out do you.” Sarada whispered into her ear
It was then that Boruko noticed another sound from behind her. The sound of a woman moaning could be heard through the doorway.
“Oh, you finally noticed. Yea, there's a reason I can only give you Sasuke…” Sarada said they turned around and opened the door.
Inside the guest room at the large king-sized bed Borukos little sister Himawari had her 11-inch dick hilted into the soping wet pussy of Sakura as she pounded into the milf.
“AWUGH! Ms.Himawari. Does my pussy feel good! Please! I want to please Mommy!” Sakura moaned whorishly for the young girl.
“Yes, Sakura! Your pussy just how I like it.” Himawari chuckles cheerfully
“Thank you! My pussy is made for you so please continue fucking it!” Sakura moans
“What a good girl you are,” Himawari says sweetly like she's talking to a child.
“I am! I am your good girl” Sakura moans as her back arches and she cums but Himawari doesn’t seem to care as she continues her assault. Sakura feels her womb wrap around Himawari's dick like it's in love. The shame of being dominated by a girl so much younger has been fucked out of her repeatedly.
Boruko watches her sister fucks Sakura. This isn't the sex lovers have. Her sister is fucking Sakura like she's a toy to play with, flicking all of the milfs switches for her amusement. Himawari doesn’t seem to even notice them as the two of them are in their own little world.
“Himawari found us out first but she just walked and started asking questions. And once she found out that Your parents were my pets she wanted a pet all her own. She is a willful one. She knew exactly who she wanted. So we went to my place and Himawari jumped my mom immediately on sight.
It was incredible to watch Sakura facefucked into the floor for 10 minutes before her throat was overflowing with cum. After that, she was in no position to resist as Himawari methodically played with pussy until she was begging for it. Ever since then Your sister as owned my mother completely. All that's left is you and Sasuke. So what do you want?” Sarada asked finally as she watched drool drip from her mouth.
Boruko's brain finally reset as she processed everything. Her mind raced with a million thoughts but one thing floated to the top. A memory of her first boner when she saw Sasuke bend over to pick something up. A million images of Sasukes thick voluptuous body that she had hopelessly masturbated to so many times. But a new normal lay before them.
Boruko turned to Sarada “You're a good friend” She said softly as she walked into the bedroom with Sasuke before closing the door.
Sarada grinned devilishly as she returned to her own room where Hinata and Naruko waited on their hands and knees. Dripping wet as they had listened to the conversation and knew their daughter was about to ruin their best friend. They were happy for Sasuke since she was about to understand the pleasure of being the property of a young dom.
After Boruko closed the door she removed all her clothing. She walked up to Sasuke's thick ass and looked down at the lust of her life gift-wrapped for her. Her dick hung out at its full 10 inches as it was so ready to breed. Sasukes body works against her bindings helplessly. Boruko went to remove her mask when she found earbuds in her ear. She pulled them out and listened. The sound of a woman moaning could be heard. It took a second but Boruko realized it was a recording of Sakura, Hinata, and Naruko all praising their new mistresses between them moaning in pleasure. Boruko grins at the perfectly prepared gift.
Boruko pulls off the mask and the earbuds. She sees Sasukes dark eyes focus on her as she can finally see again. Her eyes fill with hope as she Boruko gently removes the gag in her mouth.
“Boruko! Thank the gods you are here. Untie me everyone's gone insane!”
“Sure I can do that…As soon as you admit who you belong to” Brouko says as she dropped her ft 10-inch dick onto Sasukes stomach. Sasuke’s own 6-inch dick is crushed under the weight of the heavy member.
Sasuke stares at the giant dick as it oppressed her own dick. Sasuke's own dick precums from the contact to the hot sweaty member baring down on it. Her pussy was already wet from the vibrator and the recording.
This is what the recording meant. The kids were all grown up now and had outgrown their parents Sasuke realized. Her
“I heard the recording…Did you do that to the other? With this…thing” Sasuke said nervously as the hot cock head rested directly over where her womb was. Perfectly sized she realized.
“No. I'm late to the party. Sarada took my mom's and Himawari took your wife. We’ve all been crushing on the milfs in our lives for a long time. To make it up to me for turning our parents into her sex slaves Sarada gave you and your wife to us. “ Boruko said as she leaned over the milf leering at her voluptuous body.
Sasuke mind raced as she was brought up to speed. The image of this cock on Himawari and Sarada, as they turned the other mom's insides out, sent a shiver through her spine. She had never seen a dick this big before. She imagined her wife's face twisted with pleasure while Himawari's dick bounced in and out of her.
While Sasuke was processing everything Boruko pulled off the vibrator, pushed her panties to the side, and lined her cock head against Sasukes dripping wet hole. Sasuke felt the heat and power radiating off it. Lips to her pussy trembled. She knew they would slide open with no resistance.
Sasuke stared her eyes wide in disbelief as the recording that she had been forced to listen to all day stuck in her head. It promised euphoria if she gave herself to this young woman whom she had seen grow from a child. This girl was now a woman and about to turn Sasuke into her pet. She hated that precum dribbled down her dick in anticipation. Could she resist this?
“I've never seen that look on your face before. I wonder what other expressions you can make.” Boruko said as she plunged into Sasukes pussy. Boruko is immediately rewarded with Sasukes face growing lewder and lewder as her eyes dilate and her mouth makes a perfect O shape as she lets out a moan.
Borukos dick slider deeper than anything had before. The thoroughly teased and warmed-up Sasuke stood no chance as she felt her pussy suck Borukos dick greedily as it took her more than anything else. She had no idea that Borukos dick had grown into a perfect bitch breaker but she was complaining. How could she complain as she is struck with a pleasure she never imagined? Her insides tremble as Boruko fills her. Borukos dick doesn't stop until it reaches her womb anding more euphoria through her but it didn't stop. Boruko kept plunging deeper crushing Sasukes Womb. Sasuke feels her womb submit next as it accepts the tip of the girl's perfect dick.
Sasuke knew it was over like that. This dick touched her womb and filled her perfectly.
She was Boruko's property now. Her Wife belongs to Himawari and her best friends belong to Sarada.
Boruko relished the feeling of Sasukes pussy for a long moment before she let instinct take over and started pounding the helpless milf. Sasuke’s large breasts bounce for Borukos amusement. She had stared at these tits for years and now they were bouncing at her command. The little bit of shame and prise left in Sasuke tried to hide the incredible pleasure Boruko's dick was delivering to her However it was too much for Sasuke. Her mouth hung open letting out the same feral slutting moans that the other milfs made. It was the sound of a woman submitting to the pleasure of the girl.
“Who owns this pussy Sasuke?” Boruko asked mid fucking staring at Sasukes face wrapped in pleasure
“You do! I am Borukos slave now! I am your property! Please use me however you like mistress!” Sasuke moaned out at her owner's command. She followed the words she heard in the recording and praised this new goddess of her body.
“Wow! All four of you are complete pushovers. We should have been doing this for years.” Boruko pressed her hand against her head in wonder. The stoic Sasuke was her sex pet now. “Time to make up for lost time,” Boruka said excitedly grabbing Sasukes fat hips and letting loose
“PLLLEEAASSEEE THANK YOOUUUUU” Sasuke screamed as her mistress got used to her new hole.
In the neighboring room, Sarada listened with her ear against the wall.
“Be quiet I can’t hear properly!” Sarada whispered harshly.
“Yes, Mistress!” Naruko says as she presses her dick into Hinatas Moaning's mouth to silence her. Hinata now bounced on Saradas dick in silence. Sarada pressed her ear against the hole she cut out beforehand and listened to the sounds of Boruko fucking her mother.
Boruko's dick filled her completely with each thrust. Her chest bounced with each brutal strike as the young girl claimed her prize over and over. Every thrust was accentuated with the squelching of her pussy. Boruko was in heaven. Her wildest fantasy was wrapped around her dick declaring herself as Borukos property. It wasn’t long until Boruko was filling up Sasuke’s womb with thick cream sending the milf into a wave of rapturous orgasms.
Sasuke lay there still completely bound as she felt the warm cum filled her. Any doubts fuck out of her. Her world order had changed in a single day. She laid on her back sent to the cusp of consciousness by the power of that orgasm.
Boruko leaned forward and gave Sasuke her first kiss. Sasuke reciprocated deeply as her heart fluttered. Her orgasm-drunk state let her worries and concerns drift away. Her mistress' love for her just filled her with joy
“You don't think we're done yet, do you? We're just getting started.“ Boruka says as she flips Sasuke onto her knees and starts feeling up her beautiful fat ass. Sasuke wants to ask for time to recover from the hardest orgasm in her life but then she feels Mistress's dick pressed against her pussy. Sasuke purs in delight as she feels her body get ready to pleasure its mistress more her Boruko grins contentedly enjoying the view of Sasukes blush ass before penetrating her.
That night, Boruko was going to repeatedly drill her dominance into Sasukes very soul. Her dick was building a new life for itself inside Sasuke. Sarada enjoyed every second of it as she listened to her best friend Dominate her mom with satisfaction.
Her satisfaction was twofold. First of all she was glad for her Friend finally getting the girl of her dreams but more importantly, now the secret was out. They're all in on it and have nothing to hide. She looks down at Borukos and Himawari's moms who were worshiping her cock at this point.
She smiled smugly at the two older women honoring her cock like it was their god. They savor every thick meaty inch. The taste sent shivers down their spines and flooded their minds and pussys. They stared up at Sarada with a pleading look hoping that the schoolgirl would bless them with her mammoth cock.
“Well, now that we don't have to hide there's nothing stopping me from enjoying you two as I please. I hope you are ready to completely live as my slaves.“ Sarada says patting their heads. Hinata and Naruko moan happily as lap up master cum.
“Now Naruko get on your back your daughter got me excited and your womb needs some loving
“Oh God yessss! Split me open with your magnificent cock“ Sarada smiled at the milfs submission as she hilts herself full inside Naruko and brings the woman into a passionate kiss. Hinata smiles as her wife receives their mistress's love. Then gets on her knees and starts Sucking Saradas balls.
Himawari enjoys another night's balls deep inside Sakuara's warm pussy. It's only been 3 days since their relationship started but she couldn't be happier. Every day at school all she can think about is how she's going to run to Sakura and plow her wonderful pussy again. She loved her pretty pink pet.
“I should really tell Boruko about this so she can finally get with Sasuke like she always wanted. “
She looked down and saw Sakura's orgasmic face. The famous doctor blissfully gets her back blown out by the girl. Sakura still can't believe she's let it go this far but every time Himiwari enters her she loses herself to the girl.
“I can tell her tomorrow.“ Himawari said she wrapped her lips around Sakura's nipples while the grown woman moaned her name. She gave causally Sakura the best matting press of her life. The young prodigy fucked Sakura silly.
The following morning the three girls sat around the kitchen table enjoying a freshly made breakfast. Naruko sulks over by the dishes cleaning while the rest of the moms enjoy their own breakfast. Under the table, Hinata, Sakura, and Sasuke bounce their heads up and down on the girl's dick. A healthy breakfast of girl cum was all the slutty milfs could ask for.
That night the next generation surpassed their parents and left those moms blissfully happy. From then on Sarada, Boruko, and Himiwari spent most of their nights at each other houses. They had all the time in the world to do whatever they want with there new milfs.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Eyes slowly blinked open before taking in the view of the timber ceiling above his bed.
A huge yawn escaped his muzzle, fangs briefly on display as his jaw widened, almost akin to a snake, before snapping shut. Throwing the bed covers back his sock covered paws hit the floor as the 8 year old fox padded over and into the bathroom.
One quick wash and call of nature completed Miles Prower's piercing blue eyes stared into the cabinet mirror, eyeing up the fox staring back at him. “Ugh, I hate that name... although I can't really remember why...” Opening the cabinet he took out the roll of sports tape and wound it round his gloved paws. Closing the cabinet he smiled into the mirror, “whatever, anyway Sonic found me and named me 'Tails' so that's that.”
Leaving the bathroom, still clutching the roll of tape, he padded over and slid his red and white sneakers onto his foot paws before binding them with the sports tape.
“I never see the point in this stuff...” He muttered while holding up the half used roll of tape but then shrugged his shoulders, “but Sonic uses it so it must be cool.”
He walked over to the table in the centre of his house, placed down the tape and put on his brown tool belt with shoulder strap.
Engaging the enerbeam he tried once, missed, then again, success! Snagging his goggles from the sofa arm he whipped them back and caught them before placing them on his head.
Testing out the goggles he scanned the room and switched modes, from zoom 'wow, too close, I can see the specks of dirt on the wall' to thermal whereupon he noticed a triangular object standing out from the background, glowing at a slightly warmer colour. Flicking his goggles off and back up onto his brow the fox picked up his communicator and strapped it to his left wrist. A quick check found 'No new messages'.
Stepping into the kitchen area he opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of blueberry juice and some leftover pizza. Kicking the door shut with his heel he scoffed the pizza and washed it down with the juice. “Hmmm, not the greatest breakfast ever but still better than Meh Burger... BURRRRRRRRP.”
Now he headed into the workshop, namesakes wafting slowly from side to side as he walked. Sniffing the air he scrunched his muzzle in disgust, “ugh it still smells of fish, curse you Knuckles.”
Walking past his yellow plane he lovingly tapped the fuselage, “ready for whenever I need ya.”
Arriving at the workbench he picked up his adjustable wrench and tried a few practice swings before storing it in his tool belt.
Just then his large ears twitched at the sound of a “ping” from his communicator. Lifting his wrist and tapping the button brought up the message that Mrs Walrus needed help with rescuing her baby from up a tree. “Looks like a job for me,” the fox said out loud as he jogged out of the workshop and soon arrived at the occupied tree.
Spinning his namesakes he rose into the air, strafing left then right between the branches as he ascended until he found the child, carefully picked up the baby and retraced his flight path back to solid ground before handing over the child.
“Oh, my baby!” Mrs Walrus exclaimed in relief, Tails just rolled his eyes.
The two tailed fox made his way back to the workshop. Just as he was entering through the doorway his communicator pinged again.
“Eggman is attacking!”
Immediately jumping into the plane he took off and circled the island until he spotted his friends, already engaged in battling a single huge mech together with a swarm of the standard motobug, crabmeat and buzz-bomber badniks on a beach at the edge of hedgehog village.
Tails began dealing with the aerial threat, circling back and forth he took out the buzz-bombers using the weapons on the plane. Once the last one was destroyed he landed the plane on the beach and rushed over with his trusty wrench to help deal with the run of the mill badniks. Amy was smashing them with her hammer, Knuckles was punching them into the sand, Sticks was using her boomerang.
Meanwhile Sonic was busy with the large mech and, after just a few more hits, it soon collapsed onto the beach with Eggman floating up out of the top shaking his fist.
“Curse you pesky rodents!”
“We aren't rodents, we're mammals.” Tails pointed out.
“I thought I was an echidna?” Knuckles piped up.
Sonic tapped him on the shoulder, “you are buddy, Tails is just sassing eggface.”
“Oh okay, you tell him Tails!”
Eggman turned and began flying away, “I'll be back!”
Sonic waved dismissively at the retreating villain, “yeah yeah, whatever. Great job team! How about we get lunch at meh burger.”
Amy smiled and clasped her paws together, “Are you asking me out on a dinner date Sonic?”
The blue hedgehog facepalmed and, drawled out “if by 'dinner date' you mean me and all of our friends having lunch together in a place of questionable hygiene with mediocre food then yes.”
She huffed in response, “there's no need to be so harsh.”
Sonic shrugged his shoulders, “I was being polite.”
The gang headed over to Meh Burger and collected their food. Most sat down at the picnic tables but Sticks took her tray and hid under the table.
Amy stuck her head under the table, “Sticks, why are you hiding?”
“The government are watching, they have spies everywhere!”
Tails looked round, the only other person present was Dave. He ran through several potential comebacks in his head before going with, “I'm pretty sure Dave the intern isn't a government spy.”
The voice from the table retorted, “that's what they want you to think.” She popped her head out and stared at Dave who was casually washing a plate and looking completely disinterested, “man, he's good,” and she ducked back into her hiding spot.
Eventually the gang finished eating and Sonic stood up and did some stretches.
“So, I'm gonna go for a run, you guys got any plans?”
Amy stood and stacked the empty plates onto the tray, “fuzzy puppies rematch with Eggman.”
“Okaaaay.”
Knuckles stood up and rubbed his chin in deep thought, “I feel the need to guard something shiny.”
“You do you buddy.” Sonic then leaned down to send his voice below the table, “what about you Sticks?”
“That's classified.” The voice from under the table replied.
Sonic crossed his arms and shook his head from side to side, “of course it is... what about you Tails?”
“oh, er, there's this new video game just come out, I thought I'd give it a go.”
Giving his trademark thumbs up the hedgehog smiled, “cool, just don't forget who the video game champ is.”
The fox smiled back, “oh I remember...it's Knuckles.”
Sonic snorted with laughter, “good one buddy, I'll catch you later.”
With that the gang split up, leaving Sticks under the table, and Tails headed home.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Suguru has teleported short distances with Satoru before — across the sports field and back, up onto the roof after dark — so he knows that Satoru doesn’t have to hold him to fold time and space for the pair of them.
Maybe it works differently when they’re traversing distances greater than a kilometre, but Suguru doesn’t think so. He knows Satoru has been working on teleporting people straight into Shōko’s theatre without ever leaving the battlefield; he’s pretty sure they don’t even have to touch.
Still, he doesn’t say anything when Satoru’s fingers curl into his waist.
Pressed close to him like this, first thing in the morning, straight after a shower, Satoru smells good. There’s the citrus burst of his shampoo, more bergamot than lemon these days, but also that ozone and petrichor scent that’s uniquely Satoru’s. It’s the scent of electrical potential building in the atmosphere. It’s the scent of lightning in the air.
And now, it makes Suguru’s hair stand up on the back of his neck for a whole new reason. At least, it did before his stomach lurched sideways.
‘Jesus,’ he gasps when his feet hit solid ground.
Bending at the waist, he plants his hands on his knees and breathes deep, staring down at where his tabi shoes press fallen pine needles into exposed tree roots. He doesn’t have the courage to look at where Satoru has brought them yet; he doesn’t think teleportation will ever get any easier, but the air tastes fresh and clean on his tongue.
A leather boot bumps into the side of his foot. ‘I wonder if it’s worse for you.’
Even as his breakfast threatens to make a reappearance, Suguru can’t help noticing that Satoru is still touching him, rubbing soothing circles into his lower back. He can’t help wondering what
he
smells like first thing in the morning, whether Satoru has ever noticed the scent of
his
shampoo.
If he thinks the sweat already beginning to permeate through Suguru’s shirt is gross, actually.
Pulling himself up to full height before he’s ready, Suguru tries not to mourn the loss of contact too much. The lemon Hi-Chew Satoru presses into his palm almost makes up for it. Shoving the wrapper into his pocket, Suguru feels strangely shy as he pops the candy into his mouth, garbling a thank you around it. The familiar sourness flooding his tongue is the taste of second year, the taste of missions before they were separated.
Willing his churning stomach to settle, he asks, ‘You mean because of the curses?’
Silhouetted against the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy overhead, Satoru’s smile seems even brighter than the morning sunshine.
‘I mean because of your delicate sensibilities.’
Suguru shoves him, suppressing a shiver of delight when he makes contact with the solid muscle of Satoru’s chest, warm and yielding beneath his fingers. No forbidding barrier. No lightning scented Infinity.
Not for the first time, Suguru wonders. ‘Get moving, asshole.’
With a peal of laughter like wind chimes, Satoru turns on his heel and starts trudging his way through the undergrowth. The aroma of damp earth and pine needles bursts from beneath his every step, and Suguru realises he doesn’t feel sick anymore. Whether it was the Hi-Chew or the tease, he isn’t sure. For as long as he can remember, Satoru has always delivered them in combination.
Fucking smart ass.
Still, Suguru makes a mental note to pick up some Hi-Chew before his next mission. Jumbo pack, lemon flavour.
It’s hard to know for certain, but Suguru thinks the air is a little cooler than it was when they left the grounds of Tokyo Jujutsu Tech a few minutes earlier. Whether in terms of latitude or altitude, they’ve probably travelled upwards, but he doesn’t bother asking where they are. He doesn’t offer a faster mode of transport either, probably for the same reason Satoru didn’t teleport them directly to the location of the curse.
At just gone nine in the morning, the forest is abuzz with the sound of late summer. It’s already muggy and the path forwards is steep and, trailing after him without even a bottle of water to share between them, Suguru wonders if Satoru is leading him to his death.
He decides he doesn’t care. He thinks he’ll probably follow Satoru anywhere if it’s always like this. Only him and his best friend and the birdsong in the branches over their heads, broken up by the easy back and forth he’s always enjoyed with Satoru.
Except it isn’t so easy today.
If Satoru notices when he trips over tree roots for a fourth time, he doesn’t say anything. They both decided to forgo their uniform jackets for the mission, but even without the boxy tailoring drawing attention to them, Suguru finds himself distracted by the unexpected span of the shoulders leading the way up the mountain.
In the close heat under the trees, the cotton of Satoru’s button down is heavy with humidity and perspiration. Untucked and undone, it hangs loose around his hips, but even his undershirt can’t stop the way it clings tight to his shoulder blades as they climb. Watching the repetitive motion of Satoru’s scapulas, pumping with every step, it isn’t hard to imagine muscles flexing in synchronisation all the way down his back.
God, Suguru wishes they’d brought water.
He’s torn between relief, dread, and disappointment when he looks ahead to see the path opening up after a fifteen minute hike at most. Sure enough, the view that greets them when they step out from the tree line is a welcome distraction, but so are the UV rays sizzling across Suguru’s skin. At this elevation, they’ll burn quickly if they’re out here for long.
Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the blistering sunshine, he squints up into wall to wall blue sky to get his bearings, comparing the position of the sun to the rise and fall of the horizon. Eventually, Suguru might have worked out their location from the city sprawling northwards ahead of him, enclosed by hills on every side. Unfortunately, the way the mountainside falls away at their feet is a dead giveaway.
‘Bukō-san.’
The eyesore on the outskirts of Saitama prefecture is unmistakeable. Suguru scans past terrace after terrace carved into the face of this once sacred mountain, all the way down to the factories clustered throughout the foothills, spewing powdered limestone into the air in white plumes. It’s stark against the vibrant green of the virgin forest around it, against the pink blush of the cosmos fields beyond. At this time of year, they’ll be swarming with tourists hoping to get a photo among the blooms, cameras angled away from the monstrosity that looms over them.
His breath catches in his throat when Satoru steps behind him, pressing uncomfortably close. Before Suguru can ask what he’s doing, he feels an arm snaking past his waist and coming to a rest over his chest. When Satoru’s fingers curl around his chin, gently guiding his head to the left, he forgets how to speak altogether.
Suguru is so aware. He’s aware of Satoru’s hot breath ghosting over his cheek, slightly laboured after the climb. He’s aware of Satoru’s heartbeat, thundering away against his shoulder blade. He’s aware of every place their bodies touch, damp skin through cotton.
He’s aware of himself, too — his own stuttering breaths, his own racing heart, his own sweaty clothes — but then Satoru’s other arm comes up, the tip of his index finger landing on a single spot on the side of the mountain.
‘There,’ he breathes, hot and dangerous against Suguru’s skin.
And all of Suguru’s self-consciousness evaporates, replaced by the adrenaline that starts coursing through his veins as he finally sets his sights on the target with a little help from the Six Eyes. The flare of cursed energy looks small at this distance, but even if Suguru would have taken some time to spot it by himself, there’s still no mistaking it.
‘Special Grade.’
‘I’d offer it to you—’ Satoru’s breath shudders in his ear, anticipation rippling through the cursed energy pulled tight to his body. Suguru feels it like a second skin, he’s so
aware
. ‘—but there’s no way it’s surviving what I want to show you.’
It sounds like a promise. He sounds like a predator.
‘Is it your domain?’ Suguru whispers, not trusting his voice to hold steady. He feels hot all over.
‘Nah, it’s better.’
Finally, Satoru lets go of him. It leaves Suguru shivering even as his skin burns in the places Satoru’s fingers left behind. He swallows, blinking into the bright sunshine and wiping his sweaty palms against his pants.
When he glances over at Satoru, he’s rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, Six Eyes locked on the unwitting victim of whatever he’s about to inflict upon the already scarred landscape. Suguru doesn’t know what could be better than the pinnacle of jujutsu sorcery, but he knows it’ll be devastating. As Satoru hooks his sunglasses on the collar of his shirt, Suguru sees that telltale manic gleam to his gaze that promises destruction on an epic scale.
‘You know Hollow Purple?’
Suguru certainly
shouldn’t
know Hollow Purple.
No one
who knows Hollow Purple is supposed to live to tell the tale, but Satoru has a big mouth. Even though Suguru has never seen it for himself, he knows all the intimate details about what Hollow Purple did to Fushiguro Toji’s body; he knows there’s a reason Satoru doesn’t get to use it often.
‘More or less, it’s Blue and Red smashed together, but you’re familiar with the science by now.’ Actually, Suguru doesn’t think he’s ever really got his head around Satoru’s technique, but he doesn’t share that. He just nods, staring at the corded muscle of his tanned forearms. ‘It’s my biggest move,’ Satoru says, blue eyes growing wider and wilder by the second. ‘With the full incantation and Utahime’s technique, I project I can achieve up to 200% output.’
It’s a dizzying thought. Dizzying enough to snap Suguru out of his stupor.
He doesn’t have any ancient incantations to enhance his technique — no handbook developed over hundreds of years to guide his growth as a sorcerer — but Suguru can’t imagine a scenario where he’d need more strength than he currently has at his disposal. Not anymore, anyway.
Certainly nothing like Satoru is describing. The power Satoru is talking about belongs in the Heian era, in the Golden Age of jujutsu sorcery.
‘But I reckon I can go even bigger.’
‘Bigger?’
He’s not surprised when Satoru turns to look at him, eyes wide with something else altogether now. Suguru’s voice had come out all wrecked and he can’t even find it in him to feel embarrassed about it. Not when Satoru looks more thrilled about a single hoarse word from Suguru than he’d looked talking about 200% output or whatever insane feat he’s about to pull off.
‘Bigger,’ Satoru repeats. Watching as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, Suguru swears those bright blue eyes flicker to his lips in turn. ‘The problem is,’ he says, turning back to the curse lurching its way across the terraces in search of a victim. It won’t find one; the closed mines are devoid of life. ‘It loses potential as it travels.’
He extends his arm in the direction of his target, palm turned upwards, middle finger tucked under his thumb. Suguru can only stare with a dry mouth at the arch of his wrist, at the tendons straining under his skin, at his long fingers unfurling.
When the “spark” ignites — that telltale burst of cursed energy that signals the imminent activation of a powerful technique — Suguru thinks he’s about to go up in flames along with it.
‘If the target is over a kilometre away at the moment of impact,’ Satoru continues, his strength muted even as it builds to an inferno, flickering around his edges in a luminescent halo. Anyone else would flinch away from the searing heat of it, from the promise of total obliteration, but Suguru has to resist walking straight into the fire. ‘That 200% likely drops to around 120%, maybe even less.’
Suguru senses the exact moment the spark dies away to nothing and finds himself shivering in its absence.
‘So I’ve been devising a solution.’ Satoru turns to him, his grin as bright and brilliant and beautiful as he is. ‘And you’re the lucky son of a gun who gets to see the test run. Watch this.’
As though Suguru could ever look anywhere else. Gaping at where Satoru begins collecting power in the palm of his hand, he’s a sitting duck. Satoru could strike him down where he stood, and Suguru would have neither the wherewithal nor the will to stop him.
‘Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.’
The colour of the flame that forms at Satoru’s fingertips is the same as the summer skies and every bit as blistering, too. It’s like the hottest part of a flame, the part that Suguru’s mother warned him never to touch as a child, but Suguru wants to sink his fingers into it. He wants to burn in brilliant blue.
It thrashes around until Satoru bends it into shape, whittling it into a smooth sphere, perfectly balanced in the space between his fingers. It’s not unlike one of the curses Suguru swallows down, even if Satoru’s technique is far more beautiful than his. Studying Satoru’s profile, lit up in the cerulean hue of its glow — sharp nose, sharp chin, sharp everything — Suguru thinks that makes sense.
Without warning, Satoru throws his arm out to the side and sends the orb spinning out across the landscape. Suguru watches it hug the curve of the ruined mountain before disappearing around the side of it.
Awa
y from the curse, he can’t help noticing.
Still, after all these years, Suguru knows better than to underestimate his best friend. He’s learned that Satoru is always two steps ahead, always anticipating the next thing, always looking towards the horizon with those brilliant eyes of his.
He feels it when it begins. And whatever spark Suguru sensed before is eclipsed by the power that swells in Satoru’s core now. He feels cursed energy flowing backwards, feels the chilling promise of it. The
potential
. Suguru knows what he’s gearing up to and he knows he’s never seen it like this. Knows Satoru is drawing on deeper reserves, the ones he doesn’t usually get the opportunity to touch. The ones that Suguru didn’t even realise existed. The ones that probably run deeper still.
Dimly, he realises Satoru didn’t erect a curtain. Realises that, up on that mountain, in full view of the city stretching into the summer haze, whatever destruction he’s about to unleash will likely be seen from miles around. Realises he doesn’t even care.
Because it’s in that moment Suguru understands that Satoru is a walking talking nuclear bomb, the kind that brings entire nations to their knees. It’s in that moment Suguru understands that his best friend is probably the deadliest living thing on the planet — and the thought of it makes him breathless.
His knees tremble as Satoru extends his arm once more, and the atoms of the universe seem to tremble with him. Space and time themselves are apparently destabilised by the immense power drawn to the tips of his long fingers, cocked like a gun in the direction of the curse.
Suguru has never really noticed Satoru’s fingers before, but now, he’s aware of every inch. He’s as aware of neatly trimmed nails and broad palms as he is of the rays beating down on the back of his neck. His mouth feels dry as he drags his gaze from knuckle to knuckle, mind reeling with the distance between them.
The heat is suddenly unbearable; he needs to get out of the sun. Suguru thinks his vision is getting a little spotty, or maybe that’s Satoru, too. His technique crackles and hisses, spitting out jagged shapes as it takes form, painting their surroundings in a glow like shepherd’s warning.
It’s the colour of danger, it’s the sign to flee. And Suguru thinks it’s his new favourite.
When Satoru turns to him then, his eyes are wide and manic, all the blue washed out of them. His teeth glint with a tint of something terrifying.
‘Cursed Technique Reversal: Red.’
When he fires it off, Suguru almost forgets to follow it. Whipping his head around, he watches Red moving across the landscape as if in slow motion, blinking as the ball of pure destructive potential makes a beeline for nothing in particular.
It’s only when he sees Blue come careening around the other side of the mountain that Suguru understands. It’s only when he realises they’re hurtling towards each other at speed, with the Special Grade directly below the projected site of collision, that Suguru comprehends what’s about to happen. It’s the same moment that Satoru speaks, low and eager.
Seven explosive syllables, like a trickle of gasoline.
‘Hollow Technique: Purple.’
Whatever Suguru was expecting to witness when Satoru dragged him out of bed earlier that morning, it wasn’t this. Reality seems to shudder with the sheer force of impossibility Satoru has unleashed. The summer’s day is painted violent purple and, just for a moment, the ruined scenery of Mount Bukō is the most beautiful sight Suguru has ever seen.
Then the attack makes landfall.
The light is blinding, the noise deafening. As Suguru throws a hand up to shield his vision, he swears he can see the bones in his fingers. He swears he can see them even
after
he’s squeezed his eyes shut against the blast. And when he finally finds the courage to open them again, Suguru wonders if he’s actually gone blind. Everything is white, at least until the sunlight starts to filter through the dust, slow to move along on the nonexistent breeze.
And when the plumes of detonated limestone clear — not smoke. There is no fire; the explosion was fuelled entirely by cursed energy and
yet
— Suguru sees the size of the crater Satoru has blown out the side of the mountain. He sees the methodically sculpted terraces, carved into the slope over decades and decades, rendered a pile of white rubble. He sees the absence of the curse, not in the splatter of residuals over the rocks, not in the lingering evidence of it — but in the
lack.
The Special Grade has been so wholly subsumed by Satoru’s overwhelming strength that it’s like it never even existed.
Total and utter annihilation. It’s devastation on a scale Suguru has never seen. It’s terrifying. At least, it
should
be. It
would
be, if it wasn’t so… Well, if it wasn’t so…
‘Maximum efficiency,’ Satoru breathes, a little awed by his own brilliance. ‘That’s on the smaller side, but with the chants and Solo Forbidden Area, imagine the limits I could shatter.’
The last of Satoru’s cursed energy dissipates and it’s like a passing storm. The lightning scented electricity in the air discharges, the disconcerting rumble under the mountain falls silent. Then the clouds lift and bright sunshine prevails once more.
In all the time Suguru has known him, Satoru has never talked about reaching his limits, only ever surpassing them. Always thinking bigger, better, bolder. Always two steps ahead, always anticipating the next thing, always looking towards the horizon with those brilliant eyes of his.
Once upon a time, Suguru had felt compelled to keep pace with him. Once upon a time, he would have fought tooth and nail for the Special Grade. They’re exceptionally hard to come by, especially ancient curses like the one Satoru just obliterated out of existence for another couple of years.
But nowadays, he finds more satisfaction in patting Satoru on the back.
‘So, what do you think?’
Because nowadays, he understands where Satoru finds his satisfaction, too.
‘You’re a monster.’
Suguru is so aware of how he sounds. All breathless, his voice rough like he’s been inhaling smoke from a chemical blaze. Like his lungs have been hollowed out by the heat.
‘Cool, huh?’
No, there’s nothing cool about anything. Instead, Suguru feels uncomfortably hot, sticky and sweaty under his clothes. Actually, when he turns to look at Satoru then, a god of war wearing the face of his best friend — his very,
very
pretty best friend — Suguru thinks he’s about to pass out.
‘Hey, you good?’
Suguru can barely hear him. He can only make out the words by watching the shapes Satoru’s lips make as they move. His red, red lips.
His lips.
Suguru needs to move his lips.
‘It’s just the summer stress,’ he manages, all fond and faraway. ‘I mean it.’
Because what else could be causing him to act like he’s high from huffing hazardous fumes?
Eyes still fixed on those red lips, Suguru watches as they curve into a smile, soft and teasing.
‘Delicate sensibilities,’ they murmur. ‘It’s a bit early for lunch but…’ When Satoru hooks an arm around his waist this time, Suguru allows himself to lean into it a little. He’s not feeling well, after all. ‘I did promise, didn’t I?’
When he raises his hand to make the sign, Suguru braces himself, clinging to Satoru a little more tightly than he means to. He’s already feeling light-headed; he’s going to need all the help he can get to make this jump without throwing up all over Satoru’s shoes the moment they arrive. Burying his face in Satoru’s shirt, he holds his breath and prepares for the disorientating experience of teleportation. The nauseating sensation of leaving his stomach behind.
Except even after the distinct squeeze and pop of Satoru’s technique, Suguru finds himself wondering what Satoru is waiting for. Even after the soundscape shifts from the peace of the mountaintop to the hustle and bustle of distant civilisation, layered under the cicada’s late summer scream, Suguru can’t bring himself to open his eyes.
But then, face pressed into Satoru’s shoulder, he smells it.
Alongside citrus burst and fresh sweat and lightning, there’s the unmistakable scent of salt air. The scent of the seaside. All mingled together, it’s the scent of
home
.
Blinking at the little house he grew up in, tucked off to the side of a quiet road winding its way up the hill, Suguru knows if he turns around, he will see the islands that hug the coast of south west Honshu jutting up from the sea somewhere beyond the rooftops. From inside, he hears an excited cry of “nii-san is here!” and his heart leaps in his chest. Nanako’s cursed energy sensitivity is improving.
Satoru has brought him home.
He feels like he should hug him, but instead Suguru pushes him away, voice embarrassingly thick with emotion when he grumbles, ‘You said you’d
buy
me lunch, you cheapskate.’
‘Sorry,’ Satoru laughs, sounding not very sorry at all as he stumbles across the asphalt. ‘But the best zaru soba in the whole of Japan isn’t for sale. I can
try
paying for it if you like, but I think your ma would probably...’ Satoru’s words fade into the background hum, because at the mere mention of cold noodles on a sweltering summer’s day, Suguru’s mouth starts watering — which is how he realises that his stomach isn’t, in fact, threatening to empty his entire inventory of curses all over the sizzling paving slabs that line his rickety old street.
‘Wait,’ he cuts in, pointing an accusing finger in Satoru’s face. ‘What did you do?’
In response, Satoru only shrugs, that same easy smile playing on his lips. It’s casual, unbothered — but now Suguru sees the evidence of strain trickling down his temples, in his erratic cursed energy signature. It was an impossibly long jump. The second of the day, and straight after a Hollow Purple, too.
Even as his stomach starts doing somersaults —
nice
ones this time — Suguru frowns. ‘You’re such a show off.’
Another shrug. ‘Impressing my cute underclassman is practically my duty,’ Satoru says, grin widening at the sight of Suguru’s deepening scowl. He’s teasing, but Suguru can feel his cheeks burning all the same.
Cute.
He’s about to give him another mouthful about the weird little seniority complex he’s been nurturing for the better part of a year, but then Satoru speaks again.
‘So, what do you think? Are you impressed, Suguru?’
He’s still smiling that same easy smile, but there’s an unexpected weight to the question that Suguru didn’t anticipate. A sincere shine to the blue eyes peering at him over the top of those overly dark sunglasses that makes Suguru want to be sincere, too.
He thinks about an explosion that eclipsed the summer sunshine. He thinks about fire bursting from the tips of two long fingers. He thinks about those same fingers curling into his waist, gentle but assured.
‘Yeah,’ he finally admits. ‘Yeah, I’m impressed.’
Suguru can’t look at him, finds himself staring at the veins climbing Satoru’s arms instead. It’s how he spots those same long fingers flexing at his sides. Really, it’s a little silly that Satoru is this anxious to hear his opinion.
More than that, it’s sweet. It’s probably why Suguru adds, ‘Thank you, Satoru.’
Suguru won’t look at him. He doesn’t want to find out what he’ll do if he sees Satoru’s chest puffing out in pride. Suguru kind of hopes he’s obnoxious about it, just to make it easier. Mostly, he hopes he doesn’t ask what he’s thanking him for. Suguru doesn’t know what he’ll say if—
‘That’s Satoru-
senpai
to you.’
Ducking his head to hide his smile, Suguru shoulder checks him as he steps up to the door of his childhood home.
‘Fuck off,’ he says, knowing he won’t.
In truth, Suguru hopes he never does.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
*本章涉及CA友情向描写。
明明现在是上午九点，19号巷的街道却没有变得比傍晚更加明亮。狭窄的道路、两边建筑上探出的阳台狼狈为奸的分食了大片阳光，仅有少数光芒被漏下，吝啬的照亮这条街道。在这条相当压抑的街道上，一位少女和少年正一前一后的前进着。
少女提着一个已经开始发白的粉色手提袋，有一头褐色的长发，被编成了麻花辫，随着少女活泼的步伐摇动着。她长得相当可爱，拥有一双大大的绿眼睛。
跟在她身后的少年，金色的头发蓬松翘立，由于才剪掉蓄了几年的小辫子，他总感觉后颈有些刺刺痒痒的。他长着一张分外清秀的脸，有一双与他妈妈相似的温柔的蓝色眼睛。
克劳德此刻手里搬着一个纸箱，箱子里是他们刚刚申请下来的事务所执照和一些杂物。从小就认识不少收尾人的他，在大家亲切的指导锻炼下，成功的通过了考核，取得了收尾人执照。幸运的克劳德在和偶像一个年纪时，也成为了一名光荣的收尾人。
不过，在他高兴的拿着九阶收尾人的执照踏出那家事务所时，遇到了他面前的少女。少女像是早有准备，立刻询问他的名字和是否有成立事务所的打算，在少女的盛情邀请下，一向不擅长拒绝别人热情的克劳德同意与少女组成暂时的收尾人搭档，成立一个双人事务所。
“爱丽丝，你想好事务所的名字了吗？”克劳德跟着爱丽丝的脚步，向她搭话。
“嗯，就叫白云事务所吧！”爱丽丝回头回答他，脸上挂着灿烂的笑容。
两人闲聊着赶路，很快就走到了目的地——爱丽丝租下的一栋房子，它会在未来一段时间内成为两人的据点，名字是“白云事务所”。
白云事务所的未来会如何，目前无人能够知晓。它是会被两位收尾人打响名头，成为19号巷大名鼎鼎的事务所，登门委托络绎不绝？还是得到某个协会的承认，成为协会的直属事务所，自此再也不用担心委托来源，过上平稳的收尾人生活？亦或者，它会成为无数个倒闭的事务所，如同它的名字一样，消散于风中？
无论如何，至少目前，两位新手收尾人对未来充满了憧憬。
挂上事务所招牌，清理落灰的客厅，收拾出值班用的临时房间......克劳德和爱丽丝花了不少时间将这栋有些年头的房子整理了一番。直到爱丽丝站在事务所门口，满意的点点头说看上去是个像样的事务所了，克劳德才发觉自己已经饥肠辘辘了。
两人从街道回到白云事务所的客厅，爱丽丝从自己的手提袋里拿出一个不小的饭盒，里面挤挤挨挨的塞满了各种三明治。她将每个口味都挑出来一个，放在饭盒的盖子上递给克劳德。克劳德愣了一下，接过盖子说了声谢谢。
克劳德刚咽下一口三明治，就听到了爱丽丝的问题。
“克劳德，你打算用什么武器战斗呢？”
在收尾人考核时，他使用的是由考核方提供的简易制式工坊武器，一把开刃的刀。尽管武器的性能相当普通，克劳德仍然通过了战斗考核。使用和偶像相似的武器令他稍微有些激动，于是他顿了一下才回答道，“通过
收尾人考核以后，妈妈送了我一把太刀。”
“爱丽丝呢，打算用什么武器？”
爱丽丝狡黠的眨眨眼睛：“到时候你就知道啦。”
克劳德看上去对这个答案有些不满意，但爱丽丝不再回复他，他只好专心于消灭三明治，以抚慰自己饥饿的肠胃。
两人吃完有些迟了的午饭，刚休息一会儿，就听到了试探的敲门声。克劳德和爱丽丝对视一眼，立刻前去打开事务所的门，把第一位探访白云事务所的客户迎了进来。
爱丽丝本来想为来访者倒一杯热茶，可惜的是事务所内现在既没有饮水机也没有茶叶，甚至没有一个用来装水的纸杯。她给脑内添置东西的清单里加上这两样后，谨慎的开口询问来访者的来意。
这是一位焦急的母亲，她八岁的女儿已经失踪了五个小时。母亲当时正在一家小型商店里添置生活用品，等她结完账走出商店后，才发现原本好好跟在她身后的孩子不见了。
这位母亲立刻回头返回商店，试图找回自己的孩子，却一无所获。商店老板告诉她，她是一个人进的商店，根本就没有带着孩子。
贫穷的母亲没有资源和人脉委托协会，只能亲自寻找事务所，然而大部分事务所的报价她都无法支付，绝望的母亲只能一家一家事务所的访问，试图为孩子抓住最后的希望。
听完这个故事，爱丽丝沉吟了一会儿，在母亲湿润的目光下开口了。
“这样吧，我们不能保证您的女儿还活着，因此我们接取‘为您找到女儿的线索’这个委托。佣金为五百眼，如果您可以接受的话，请先准备百分之二十的定金，再在合同上签字。”
说着，她用手肘捅了捅眼眶也变红了的克劳德，克劳德眨了眨眼，从桌下抽出已经收拾好的模板合同，迅速填好委托内容和佣金，递给委托人。
委托人立刻接过合同，迅速检查了一遍后签上了自己的名字，从随身的小包里拿出一百眼，放在合同上交给克劳德。
克劳德和爱丽丝签上自己的名字，与这位母亲交换了委托细节和联系方式。送走这位千恩万谢的女人后，爱丽丝收起合同伸了个懒腰：“走吧，大显身手的时候到啦！”
两人来到孩子失踪的商店门口，爱丽丝却没有立刻去询问商店老板，而是在街道附近转悠。克劳德刚准备询问爱丽丝的用意，就看到爱丽丝把手伸向自己扎住辫子的蝴蝶结，然后抽出了一根银色的长棍。
那个蝴蝶结大概是个具有异空间的存储装置，这种高科技产品可一点也不便宜。克劳德如此想到。
爱丽丝用长棍点了点一块地面，招呼克劳德来看：“你看，这里曾经有一块已经融化的水果糖。”
那个小孩的确是含着糖果跟母亲一起出门的，克劳德低头看向地面，只看到了一小块污渍和一些昆虫的断肢——那根棍子大概就是爱丽丝嘴里的“到时候你就知道了”——他的脑子里不经意划过这样的念头。
“我的武器比较特殊，是我父亲买来送我的，”爱丽丝小声对他说，“配备了很特殊的气味追踪设备，所以我才愿意接下这个委托。”
爱丽丝将武器末端悬放在那一块污渍上。过了一小会儿，克劳德看见棍子的末端延伸出许多彩色光线，这些线之间的颜色有些区别，粗细也各不相同。
克劳德弯下腰，正打算仔细观察。爱丽丝把提前准备的孩子的发绳按在武器的顶端，只见末端原本繁杂的颜色线条逐渐消失了，只留下了一条光束，蜿蜒着指向某个方位。
“简直是寻人界的首脑啊。”这场景不由得让克劳德目瞪口呆地发出感叹。
有了神奇科技的助力，两位收尾人只花了一个小时就寻找到了绑架小孩的罪魁祸首——一个流窜到19号巷的小型帮派——他们打算用这个小孩赚上一笔，正在为此联系买家。
两人简单的调查了一下四周的环境，确认这种只敢绑架小孩的帮派成员都没有什么战斗力后，克劳德和爱丽丝只花了三分钟就清剿了这个帮派。
具体流程大概是这样的：爱丽丝和克劳德破门而入；爱丽丝举起长棍迅速敲晕了两个看门的帮派成员，克劳德拿着刀结果了他们；两人一路上简直如履平地——这些连强化手术都做不起的帮派成员，顶多有一两个人有一部分义体改造。他们压根不是克劳德和爱丽丝的对手，克劳德往往两招内就能结果他们。
铁锈和机油的味道在这个黑窄的房间内蔓延，尸体横七竖八的零落在地。他的手上还残留着锋利的武器刺入人的肉体的触感，血和叫喊仿佛还在耳边萦绕。第一次杀人的克劳德有些恍惚——哪怕这些人完全是罪有应得，也并没有任何一条都市禁忌是“禁止杀人”。
确定清剿了这个帮派后，爱丽丝拿出相机，拍下现场作为提交给一协会的证明。
“看样子这是这个帮派在19号巷的第一个受害者。”
在最深处的房间，爱丽丝找到了昏迷的孩子。确认了她的特征与委托者的描述一致后，爱丽丝替孩子解开绳索。克劳德收起武器，小心的背起轻飘飘的孩子。
“克劳德，我们回去吧，”爱丽丝的声音把他从出神中唤醒，“委托人一定等不及听到这个好消息了。”
原本几乎不抱希望的委托人居然活生生的再次见到了自己的女儿，明明只分别了半天，却险些阴阳相隔的母女紧紧的抱在一起，隐约能听到母亲的啜泣声。
在送走千恩万谢的母亲后，爱丽丝把尾款收好，将确认完成的合同和剿灭帮派的证明材料收拾起来，准备明天寄给一协会，好作为未来进阶的凭据。
做完这些后，她拍拍克劳德的脸，确认克劳德的目光转移到她身上后，握住了克劳德的手：“克劳德，我们拯救了一个无辜女孩的性命，帮助一对可能骨肉分离的母女重新团聚了。”
“更重要的是，我们制止了未来更多分离的产生，保护了更多的无辜生命。”她神情温柔，“所以，不要再自责了，克劳德。想要掠夺别人的生命的话，一定要做好自己的生命也被抢走的觉悟才行。”
克劳德抬头望向她的眼睛，看到她眼珠上颤抖的光芒。他回握爱丽丝同样颤抖的双手，声音有些哽咽：“爱丽丝，这样做是正确的吗？”
“保护人的生命，夺去人的生命，”克劳德的蓝色眼睛看着越发湿润，迷茫使他的话语有些错乱，“我很久以前就决定成为收尾人了，在都市，这一切都应该是理所当然的吗？”
“收尾人应当践行正义，保护弱小；言而有信、磊落光明......”他松开爱丽丝的手，低头自言自语，“我知道，我知道他们不是好人。我只是，只是第一次杀人，第一次夺走别人的未来......”
都市为什么会变成这样——人们在都市里不断地掠夺，却又在都市里不断地失去，由此构成了贪婪与憎恨，悲伤与痛苦的循环，这样的循环似乎永远也不会停止......
毫无理由的，极深重的失望感迅速席卷了克劳德，使他的胃部开始抽搐，他俯下身，几欲干呕。同样是强装镇定的爱丽丝没有办法回答他，两位尚且还是孩子的收尾人出现了预料之外的相当严重的心里问题。
成为收尾人是正确的吗？
克劳德艰难的直起身来，准备去处理武器上的斑驳血迹。这时，他注意到自己的裤兜有些鼓，他伸出手，从里面掏出了一把水果糖。
一定是那个孩子在向他们拥抱道谢时塞进去的，他那时心神激荡，完全没有注意到女孩的小动作。他抬头看向爱丽丝，把手里的水果糖分了一半，递给面前的搭档。
爱丽丝接过糖，两人相顾无言，只是同时拆开包装，把糖放进嘴里。
酸甜的水果滋味在嘴里绽开，不知为何，克劳德觉得压在心头沉甸甸的石头似乎轻了一些。脱离了沉重的情绪后，丢脸的心思只花了一秒钟就重新占领了心头高地。他把剩下的糖果塞回裤兜，仓皇的抹了一把脸，告诉爱丽丝自己要去清理武器，留给爱丽丝一个急促的背影。
以总辖都市中所有收尾人的一协会为主轴，管理收尾人的巨大团体被称作协会。一般在都市中发生的事件会根据各个协会的特性进行适配，再由协会将任务分配给收尾人。
事务所虽然在作为收尾人集会的方面上与协会类似，但是其规模较小。有些事务所会被直属的协会下派任务，而有些事务所则会自行寻找任务。
就像某人说的“有多少收尾人，就有多少事务所”，都市中有着多到数不清的事务所，但往往都是昙花一现。[摘自《协会与事务所》]
备注1：
首脑是都市的最高政府，也是管理A公司、A巢、以及1号巷的组织与整个都市的统治者。首脑的真实身份是完全未知的，他们非常神秘，通常无法被看到或被打听到。首脑负责管理和授予奇点的专利，也即有使用所有奇点的权利。
作为所有翼的领导者，他们通过眼线监督所有活动和事件，通过爪牙对违反禁忌的个人或组织实施清理。此外，首脑中被称为调律者的职位，其成为方式和具体人数均不明，唯一已知的是其危险程度和战力远超一阶收尾人。
他们是都市的裁决者，世间一切秘密的来源与终点。
备注2：
“眼”，都市的货币。
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Life as a vampire, compared to a human, could be stated to be… wild.
Animalistic.
Complex.
Slow.
Vampires could be reduced to basic impulses due to multiple various stimuli, a lack of sustenance, a threat to coven, progeny, mate,… or child.
Turned children are illegal, only permitted in extreme circumstances, like threat of immediate death, and then put into highly controlled and monitored environments until after puberty or tested successfully on multiple occasions so that they could be allowed into less controlled spaces.
If circumstances are not judged to be adequate… the child and sire would be punished accordingly. In the case of the child, put down permanently.
Jane and Alec were a result of these accepted circumstances. They weren’t born to the royal coven, but brought into the fold, adopted by the ruling family with great consideration… and emotion. Athenodora had never wanted children but having run into the twins while on a trip with Didyme, latched onto the children fiercely, and with great haste pushed her coven to assess the children for being turned. At only 6 years the children were at great risk with superstition and the black death rampant. Caius was resistant to her pleas on the matter, but after arriving with Marcus in tow to look at the human children from afar, the case was closed quickly and the twins relocated to the castle with venom in their veins post-haste due to the severe wounds accrued from an attack on their lives.
Growing up human, Jane and Alec were treated as an illness. A mutation or sickness that killed their mother in birth. The black death was rampant in their town, and the twin’s birth compounded local superstition that the devil had laid claim to the region. As such they were fiercely ostracized and frequently harmed by the scared and angry. The twins lost many memories from the burning fever that wracked their bodies through the change, but the trauma of their upbringing in the human village resulted in the powerset that was so notorious among vampiric society, Jane’s pain stimulation and Alec’s sensory deprivation.
Twins in vampire society were treasured, protected, envied.
With natural births among vampire-kind being so rare and difficult, twins were the ultimate blessing to a genetic line. Despite the twins not being genetically linked to the coven, they were venom bound all the same and treated as treasures of the family.
Athenodora and Caius became the venom bound parents to the children with the rest becoming bound through coven bonds, all aunts and uncles and cousins. Aro and Sulpicia taking care to guide them in the ways of court politics and socializing. Marcus and for a brief stint Didyme, showing the children what empathy and positive bonds look like both in family and nature. Despite Caius becoming a father abruptly, he was a fierce protector of his family and that extended to his children. Athenodora and he are not softhearted individuals and the children were thus reared with tough love, but a fierce love nonetheless. They were drilled in self defense, self control, strategy, and doted on with coveted secret smiles and private displays of physical affection.
Jane mourned the loss of her aunt Didyme, but Alec was devastated. Instead of his grief turning to anger and violence like that of Jane, he often chose to spend days if not weeks locked away with Marcus. Hidden away in gardens and private chambers mourning for her loss. To this day he was quieter and her more angry than they were in their earlier years. But After over 650 years since shedding their mortal skins the children had grown from their measly 6 years stature, they now appeared to be more like 14 year old human children and the younger vampiric populace minimized their grief related emotional changes by blaming these “negative” attributes on “puberty”.
Ludicrous.
Their vampiric puberty ended years ago, those hormonal impulses controlled for decades.
That didn’t make her want to commit acts of violence against the progeny of the Russians any less for insinuating otherwise in his conversation with the Germans.
“Sister.” The light reprimand was delivered with the barest release of breath.
A muted warning that Aunt Sulpicia would be scolding her after the event due to her not schooling her public mask to hide her disdain and annoyance from said garishly dressed progeny across the ballroom.
Her head tilted slightly further to the right toward her twin to acknowledge his warning but bright red eyes still watched the offender across the room. All it took was a light curl of her upper lip to flash fangs and eye contact with the physically older but younger male across the room to remind the guest that THEY were still very much above him, that the insult was noted, it being enough to make him duck closer to his burly bearded sire and avoid her eyes watching from their position on the raised dais.
Fully turning toward Alec, face completely relaxed into a bored mask, she responded with a light raising of her brow to convey her nonverbal response of *Is that better?* The softening of his eyes was the only expressional change before the two turned back to the room at large for the start of Uncle Aro’s speech as indicated by the light chimes of crystal being tapped as he stood from his throne
“Esteemed guests, it is only every Golden Gathering that I get to see such peaceful intermingling among covens. During this celebration of the second Millennium some of our returning covens have grown, with progeny being sired in the last 50 years,” Aro gestures fluidly between the Irish and Russian covens both having acquired new members since the last gathering. “but it is with great pleasure that I am to announce that my beloved friend has shared news of expectation.” Viewing their uncle from behind it was clear he was elated, body practically vibrating with excitement and containment of his joy for the topic at hand. “The Cullen Coven is formally announcing an incoming birth, as such the Alaskan peninsula and Pacific Northwest of the United States has been elevated to a protected region until the birth.”
Pregnancies were a rarity to start, with gestation taking between a hundred to hundred and fifty years to conclude. During the duration of the pregnancy a coven would be protective and quick to violence in order to assure the protection of an expecting mother. As such pregnancy announcements during the Golden Gathering were made to give other covens a warning to avoid regions or take great caution when navigating through the territory of an expecting coven. Pregnancies were expected to be reported to protect the coven expecting and reduce the likelihood of miscarriage from violence related stress, and give ample warning that trespassing will not be tolerated, the Volturi significantly more likely to rule in the favor of an expecting coven in the event of conflict being brought to the courts. Currently only Japan and now the Alaskan/Pacific Northwest were elevated to protected status, with the Japanese Coven being almost 70 years into their pregnancy.
“Vōbīs congratulor, Carlisle on this wonderful development!” Uncle Aro punctuates his joy with a series of small claps close to his chest, adding a sense of childishness to the formal announcement. Jane is tempted to roll her eyes but refrains with silent commiseration with Alec, who has the slightest twitch in his cheek indicating the suppression of smirk on his part. The side eye communication ends almost as fast as it began. Aro has since schooled himself after being reminded to move onto more business related announcements with a hand on his arm from Aunt Sulpicia standing to his left.
“With that being said, Carlisle has been working with me on a scientific inquiry the last few decades. For those living in regions of lower human population or those with feeding difficulties of varying nature we have been exploring the production of synthetic blood.” The room seemed to collectively cringe at the prospect, but there were several of those in the crowd with looks of curiosity or interest on the topic. “We have made great progress. With human scientists making advancement in medical practices in the last few centuries, we’ve managed to generate larger batches of sustenance from small quantities of blood. At present we do have the dilemma of taste being affected in part by preservatives required for transport. However, storing times prove to be advantageous for those with need to go further out for food supply or when insolation is needed for child or progeny rearing. As such should any of you wish to sample this wonderful new tool in our arsenal please feel free to do so in the back of the ballroom at the fountains.” Uncle Aro gestures to the far side of the room from our position. The fountains in question being three transplants from the atriums of grand Roman houses. Flowing with crystal clear waters they make the blood pooled in their crystal decanters look especially vibrant behind them. “ It is our hope that with technology making great strides among humans and surveillance systems becoming a problem for hunting, that we can maintain our covert existence by evolving our methodology alongside them. We hope you follow our example in finding new ways to exist in this new world and should there be any ideas or observations of relevancy, we encourage you to pass on the details through our newest chair of human relations, Our dearest Heidi.” Uncle Aro concludes by nodding toward Heidi on the right wall of the room, standing near the guard and additional advisors where she gives a jaunty wave flashing her long red lacquered nails to the room. Those were a recent change, they were normally a taupe color.
The ruling family remains at the dais for a few minutes more while the covens converge to the sampling tables as is previously discussed and agreed upon in the event debrief.
“Jane.”
Stepping forward at her father’s right hand, she angles slightly to the left and tilts her head to look at him while he’s seated upon his throne. Surprising, however, is her mother’s hand silently snaking behind father’s seat to grab her hand from where she stands at his left.. She can feel Alec’s eyes boring on the interaction from his position slightly behind.
“Hac nocte discedis.”
Other than a slight tightening of her jaw, and a light squeeze from her mother’s hand there’s no movement in response to the statement. It’s a disagreement that had been recurring for well over a month, since the Cullen's expecting notice was delivered. She had no desire to participate in this mission but she was being given no choice in the matter. Alec had been neutral in the disagreement, not caring either way.
They were to play human with a volatile coven.
Ludicrous.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
NOV 2
Let it be known that for as emotionally unstable as their family is, they are at least aware of it. “Working” on it might be a very loose idea, but they’ve been coming around for the better part of 2 years now. At least they are actually confronting their personal problems, looking within, going to therapy and shit like that. They could be shouting it away and pretending they hate each other like they used to do. Jason thinks it counts for something that they’re trying.
At the moment, though, the house is wrapped in a tension that hasn’t been prevalent in a long while. Sure, Dick hadn’t
told
them that he told Peter, but they’re smart enough to figure it out. No one is yelling, no one is trying to get away with murder, no one is losing their mind. But Dick is moping in the training room with that sad puppy dog face he gets when he’s feeling awful and guilty about something, and Peter…
Well, Jason expected something like Dick. The kid gets angry the same way, why not have mental breakdowns the same way?
He
thought
that Peter had checked out, just like Dick tends to do. That next morning, when he had approached what was a silent kid with a far off look in his eyes, Jason was preparing himself to bring Peter out of it. However the first time Jason said his name, Peter had snapped to reality and smiled at him.
Like nothing had happened, like nothing important was weighing on his mind.
He made a joke about their big house, had asked Jason a billion questions about the BatCave and the dinosaurs… and the Batmobile. And the numerous suits that are on display (Jason is still thankful that Bruce doesn’t keep his old suit in the cave anymore). Really, he talked about everything
but
the bombshell that no doubt had been given to him last night. It’s not everyday that someone finds out that for the last month they’ve been talking to a version of their dead father that is very much alive and has a completely different family and was trying to adopt them without even him knowing they were related.
(Yeah, Jason thinks this revelation- no thanks to Tim’s loving help- is both a blessing and a curse.
On one hand, it means there are no more clones, no secret enemies (at least, from their world), no questionable parentage of some teenagers who
really
are strangers to each other. That much means a lot, considering it could have been
way
too much to handle.
But on the other hand, it means that Dick and the rest of them can’t keep the kid.
The thought feels inescapable to Jason, and no doubt the rest, too. It looms overhead like a big reminder they can’t have anything nice for very long. Forget that Dick was about to buy a damn
house
and adopt him so they could have some happy family together. The rest of them want Peter too.
Bruce, the damn fool, is already trying to spoil the kid to death. Jason saw it last night in the Cave- Peter, obviously being himself and running around to look at the displays while Bruce stood there all fond for the fact that he has a
grandkid.
(A
grandpa
at 42 years old.) He saw it in the subtle comment before they left the house this morning that Peter could use the workshop downstairs whenever he wanted to, and of
course
Bruce could show Peter where they keep the material for their suits so he can make a new mask. Would he like any help with it? Let him know if there’s anything he can do, chum.
He’s not the only one. But he’s the biggest, most obvious culprit, which is insane, because Bruce is
Batman.
Duke is excited to have another super-powered Bat on the team, if all of his ramblings about the possibilities of Peter’s spider-whatevers has anything to say (Jason’s been told the hyphen is apparently important to add to Peter’s “spider-whatevers”). Steph adores Peter like he’s her newest little cousin to pester, and Jason… thinks they should keep an eye on that. Steph is the most trouble-loving of them and Peter is a menace the same way.
Babs had also grown attached to him, and that was the second he arrived. Peter had let them know that the day he showed up at the library was the day he got to Gotham in the first place. She’s been getting live updates from everyone in that stupid group chat, and what she had to say this morning was that she’s
“of the firm belief that Peter will come around.”
Damian and Tim are already welcoming Peter like he’s their brother- the fights that are just banter with a couple rounds of elbows to the face, dumb nicknames, and an overall sense of being annoying? It’s like Damian has a long lost twin or something. Though technically Peter isn’t a brother, but a nephew, they’re all close enough in age that it wouldn’t feel that way.
Jason, though? He’s a 23 year old college student, not anywhere close to their youth, and he was excited to have a
nephew.
Honestly, he still is. Just because Peter is going to leave doesn’t mean that he’s stopped considering Peter to be family. He knows Cass feels the same way, because she keeps referring to Peter as
“my little nephew.”
She probably knew before any of them, with that language of hers. She probably saw Spider-Man and made the connection between him and Dick immediately. If she had, she’s keeping it to herself. Her only comment about it is a sweet smile that tells Jason nothing.
Even if they have to say goodbye to Peter, they at least have him right now.
But also, saying goodbye is not something their family is good at.)
Everyone had told Dick that he has to tell Peter as soon as possible, when they were
alone,
so Peter could properly freak out with no one there to witness it and make it more overwhelming. That’s because everyone expected this revelation to come with a lot more… freaking out. But Jason doesn’t know
what
Peter is feeling about it.
The kid isn’t open to questions at the moment, or so, Jason gets the vibe. All morning, he’d been acting as if everything is fine. He keeps on with his
Just Peter, Mister Alfred,
and Alfred keeps on with
Just Alfred, Master Peter.
He ate breakfast with Damian and Bruce (because on Saturdays, Tim doesn’t emerge from his room until 2PM, and Jason was sort of out of it until he had eaten something, but he’d been informed that Peter was acting normal) and doesn’t show a hint that anything is wrong.
The only sign that Peter
is
stressed out is Ace. The dog has been trained for that- trained for
everything,
pretty much. He runs to get Dick or Bruce if Jason is having a flashback, he sits on Tim or Dami’s laps when they start picking at their fingernails or overwork themselves while training. Ace alerts when someone is experiencing high levels of stress. (He’s also a tracking dog named the Bat-Hound when Batman needs him at night. He’s just as much of an overachiever as the rest of the family.)
He alerts for Peter, which leaves a sour taste in Jason’s mouth. Because if it weren’t for Ace, Peter would have gotten away far longer with his little charade. Ace only stops when Bruce sits next to Peter and pats the dog’s head, and they talked… about robots or something. Jason was still halfway through breakfast, so he doesn’t remember that part.
That doesn’t mean Peter stopped being stressed. It just means that Ace knows something is being done about it.
Actually, no, Jason lied. There is
another
sign that something is wrong. When Dick came up for breakfast, Peter was out of there so fast that Jason blinked and he was in the kitchen washing his plate and then blinked again and he was gone entirely. The disappearing act was almost as impressive as Zatanna’s magic. Dick hadn’t thought the same. He sat at the table picking at his blueberry waffles in such a pitiful state that Bruce and Damian had tried to cheer him up by giving him some smuggled in canned whipped cream.
(Alfred hadn’t let it slide. There’s many foods that he’ll turn a blind eye to in cases like these, but an abomination of canned whipped cream when he could make it himself? Bruce had the decency to look like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.)
Jason figures that it’s best to let this lie, for now. It’s not his place yet to butt in. Peter’s not hurting himself, really, and he only
just
got the news, so he gets at least a week of avoiding it before Jason steps in. But he
can
be there for the kid, avoiding it or not. So instead of Dick going with Peter to Benny’s to get his stuff, Jason goes.
Looks like Peter is still willing to stay with them as planned. He hasn’t indicated otherwise, like he wants to go back to Benny’s after all and
really
avoid Dick, and by extension, the rest of the Bats. So… that could be worse.
Benny did turn out to be a good guy, like Dick had mentioned. He’d been worried when Peter hadn’t returned last night, and was relieved to find out that Peter is going to stay with the Waynes. He had looked surprised for about five seconds, until he muttered,
“Was only a matter of time.”
Like Bruce really is an ancient being that goes around collecting the lost souls of orphans.
Something that Jason had been quick to rectify was Peter’s small level of embarrassment about the room he’d been staying in. It’s small, but Jason had lived in and had
seen
worse, and he didn’t like how Peter was waiting for Jason to make a comment about it. The kid only relaxed when Jason started asking about what to grab and what not to.
It’d be another time, when Benny wasn’t hanging out in the doorway, for Jason to let Peter know that he
gets it.
“Well, this
was
supposed to be temporary, but I didn’t think you’d move up in the world
this
fast. Got any tips for me, or do you think I’m too old for that Brucie Wayne to take me in too, Pete?”
Peter smiles as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. Jason is grabbing whatever random stuff he can find and shoving it into a suitcase they brought along. He hadn’t expected Peter to have so much stuff, but it sort of makes sense. He not only got that POB of stuff from them (Jason is a fan of the jacket, and Peter had looked like a plant in the sun when Jason told him that), but he’s also been here for a month, trying to build whatever the hell contraption that Jason pulled out from under the bed.
Peter had compacted it down when Benny wasn’t looking. So Jason takes it that he’s more than a little good at this kind of thing, which means he really
does
fit in to this family.
“I dunno, Benny, you kind of look like one of those dogs that look like old men. That makes you charming. Maybe if I ask nicely, Bruce will let you come along. Just give him a big smile.”
“Doubtful that would work as well for me as it works for you, Dimples.” Benny grunts, sharing a look with Jason that says he’s fallen victim to the little manipulator before too. He watches Peter as the kid collects his toolbox, nervously shifting every few seconds. “Don’t be a stranger, just ‘cause you’re rich now.”
“Like I could ever forget to come bother you.” Peter smirks, zipping up his backpack. “And who else in this awful city would I trust for a burger?”
“You’re paying, now that you have the money to spare.”
“Benny… how you wound me so…” Peter clutches the fabric over his heart as if he’s been shot.
“Marie wanted you to take a couple sweaters that she knitted.” Benny ignores his dramatics. “And Pogo mentioned that his fridge is working fine now, so he’s hosting his house warming party next week. You should try to stop by.”
These are names Jason hasn’t heard about from the kid. But Dick isn’t the only one that went over the records of everyone in this neighborhood when they found out Peter was living here. Marie LeFontaine is an 78 year old woman that lives in the house down the street from here, she has four grandkids that stop by every now and then, all clean. Pogo isn’t a name he’s heard, so it must be a nickname. Mentioned a house warming party, so who’s new to the neighborhood again…? Ah, John Craffin, maybe.
“Miss Marie didn’t have to do that, I told her I had some new jackets…” Peter frowns as if the time spent on him wasn’t worth it.
“You built that ramp for her house for free and you expect to not get something in return? It’d be a shame on her record. I’m pretty sure Marie has been the head of this street’s knitting group since she was a baby. She made me a scarf when I was passing out free food in the last Mr. Freeze attack that left the neighborhood shut down.”
Ramp? Jason hadn’t looked
that
far into her records.
“The city should have got her one like they told her they would.” Peter says, looking through his notebooks at his desk.
“Oh, and those kids down the street will wanna know where you’re going too. They stopped by a few before you got here to tell you the mural got put up.” Benny tells him.
“It did?”
“Yeah, your idea for the petition went really well. They’re excited to show you.”
“I’ll have to check it out before we leave.”
“Oh, and-” Jason is starting to think that the ‘oh, and’s aren’t gonna stop. “-Yvette wanted to thank you for fixing her porch light.”
“You know I’ll be visiting, right?” Peter chuckles, putting the last of his notebooks in the suitcase. “Bet I’ll be here next week, even. Jason promised to sneak me to get burgers.”
“No I did not.”
“You will.” Peter sounds assured in that. Jason rolls his eyes, but he can’t find it in him to be annoyed about it. Jason also thinks he’s losing that battle. He wonders if Alfred might have the most trouble yet with this one.
“I’m just sayin’, you’re gonna get busy.” Benny shrugs like it isn’t a big deal, but the old man is definitely worrying like it is. “You’re gonna be doing stuff with your new family. Probably rich people bonding activities- I heard Brucie went on a cruise a few weeks ago with his kids just for the hell of it, in the middle of the school year, but whatever, that’s still bonding stuff. You’re gonna be having so much fun, you might not visit for a while. We get it.”
Peter hesitates. Jason can see his gaze turn from normal to washed over in an instant.
‘New family’
takes up all the space in the room. He still has that grin on his face like everything is fine, but his eyebrows furrow like Dick’s do when he’s sad.
And doesn’t that just eat away at Jason? To not know what to say to that, or what to do to help him with it? Jason’s never been good at this kind of thing, no matter what Big Bird tells him. The comforting people part of the job always felt out of reach, and it’s even worse when he doesn’t have a mask to hide behind.
“I’ll take this down to the car, if that’s everything.” Jason pats his shoulder to get his attention, giving it a little squeeze of reassurance. Peter snaps out of his stupor to blink up at him, and he nods with a vague smile.
“Yeah, thanks, Jason.”
Benny steps out of the doorway to let Jason pass by, suitcase zipped up and in hand. He gets about halfway down the stairs before stopping, right after the loudest of the creaky steps to give an illusion that he’d left.
It’s morally okay eavesdropping, okay? Don’t judge him on this. Jason can’t let his nephew stay
sad,
and he has to make sure that this convo with Benny is actually gonna help, somewhat, if Jason can’t say anything. So what if he’s lurking on the stairs? Peter’s just gonna have to get used to this family’s weird version of boundaries.
Okay, he heard that last part, and he knows how it sounded. But trust, this is still morally okay. There’s not a single duffel bag involved, so it’s fine. And if anything, Jason is the least of his worries. Tim is the biggest weirdo of them all.
“I can’t promise that life won’t get busy, but I can say that I’m not gonna stop hanging around so I can go do rich people stuff.” Peter tells Benny, a half hearted joke in between a sincere tone. “I can’t tell you how much having you around helped me out. I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t offered this room.”
“Dead, probably.” Benny grunts, but it’s hardly got a bite to it. “Or telling more people to shoot you.”
Excuse Jason?
“Oh, come on, Ben, I only did that once.” Peter’s voice tightens, and Jason wonders if he caught what he called Benny just now. “And- you know- I knew Lanky wasn’t gonna shoot me.”
Isn’t that one of the two criminals that Dick and Damian spoke about? They were on the train with Two-Face, and according to Dick, have the strangest friendship with the kid. Damian had said that they hadn’t wanted to give Peter the time of day and were acting like he’s bitten them before, but Dick said when he caught up to the two of them when looking for Peter, they were suddenly ride-or-dies. Should Jason be looking into them?
“Lanky?
What, you givin’ out nicknames to people who try to rob you, now? Way to make me worry about you even more than I already have to be.”
Peter laughs at that, like it might be an inside joke. “He’s a friend, now, I didn’t think to tell you about that. Met him again recently, he and his friend are doing better. No robbing burger joints or anything! Nickname just kind of stuck… It’s just a habit I think I picked up from my- my Dad. I think.”
He knows that Peter isn’t talking about Dick when he refers to his dad. Not just because Jason’s never heard Dick consistently call people nicknames other than family members, but because they are probably nowhere near close enough for ‘Dad’ to be tacked onto Dick’s name just yet. That hurtle is about five after the hurdle of ‘acknowledging blood ties.’
So Tony’s a nickname guy, huh? Jason wonders what else Itsy Bitsy picked up from this mystery mentor from another universe.
“Thanks, Benny. Really.” Peter tells him, voice soft.
“Anytime, Peter. Even if this room finds another person to house while you’re away, I’ll figure somethin’ out if you end up wantin’ to come back. Don’t be afraid to ask for help if you need it. Though I gotta say, if there’s one person you could trust, it’s Brucie. He gives a shit about us, y’know? He might be some rich schmuck, but he’s a Gotham child just like the rest of us. Kinder, though.”
Jason doesn’t stick around to hear more. Probably because Peter would maybe tell that Jason was eavesdropping (He keeps forgetting that the little twerp can do that.) and also probably because it’s actually getting emotional and Jason can hear Dinah scolding him about pulling this stunt. And he’s convinced she has a sixth sense for this kind of thing, so any longer of this and she’ll be able to sniff out Jason’s guilt the next time he sees her.
He makes his way back downstairs and out the closed restaurant, towards one of Bruce’s cars that he parked outside of the burger joint. What? Jason wasn’t about to bring his motorcycle if they were picking things up. Besides, the Old Man would have stopped him if he really didn’t want Jason to steal it. And the look on Peter’s face when he got to see the garage full of expensive, classic cars, was well worth it.
He’s putting the suitcase in the trunk when someone clears their throat. He turns around to spot a gaggle of tiny someones standing on the sidewalk, waiting for him to notice them.
A couple of the kids are nervously hiding behind each other or ready to book it at the first sign of trouble- Gothamites are Gothamites from the day they’re born- but the leader of their little pack- the shortest, but likely the mightiest of them- is daring to look him in the eye.
Jason can’t help but smile at that. He closes and then leans one hand on the trunk, raising a brow at the… what, 12 year old? She has her chin stuck up courageously, black hair cut short to her chin. Her bangs are pulled back by several colorful clips, the most prominent being a a yellow butterfly. What’s more interesting are her clothes-they’re new because there aren’t any holes in them, but they look recently scuffed.
And isn’t
that
odd?
This kid sticks out in their group, and not just because of the strange dynamics at play here.
She gives him a once over, trying to be brave about talking to him, but there is a cautious lean to her step, ready to book it if Jason attacks.
“What’s up, Rugrats?”
“You came in with Peter.” The little girl says. Instantly, Jason’s interest pricks at her accent. It’s deliberately thick, like she’s trying to make it a point. Could be just because she’s talking to an adult, and wants to sound tougher than she is. But the pre-scuffed clothes, the accent…
Something about her reminds Jason of Tim.
“Astute observation, Tommy Pickles.”
The girl’s brows furrow in confusion, maybe a little annoyance. “My name is Maps.”
“Oh, forgive me.” Jason raises a brow at her. “How could I have guessed
that
wrong?”
“Is Peter coming down?” She ignores his clever retorts. The other kids, despite being hesitant, are eagerly awaiting Jason’s answer.
Jeez, Peter was here for a month, right? When did he have time to adopt a bunch of kids like some Bruce Wayne in the making?
…Probably around the same time that he apparently started making his way into a familiar face of this neighborhood. He wonders if Peter is even aware that that’s what happened. He’s got people asking after him, wanting to know if he’s okay, knitting him sweaters. Apparently in the times that the Bats did take their eyes off of Peter, he was building ramps for old ladies and their wheelchairs, fixing people’s fridges, and helping kids get murals painted on walls. There’s probably a boat load of other things that weren’t mentioned, that Peter would take no credit for whatsoever.
The kid just seems to be
like that.
From what Jason had read in Spider-Man’s file on the BatComputer (specifically,
after
he found out it was Peter), Spider-Man wasn’t just leaving his mark by saving people from muggings or stopping car accidents or running after rogues. He was helping people fix up a playground in the Upper East Side, he was finding lost dogs and cats, he was talking to teenagers that were having bad nights. He helped one little boy find his way back home when he tried running away. Several people actually told Red Robin that Spider-Man swings by to check on them and ask if they need help.
As much as they try to do the same, Gotham is a cursed place. The problems that rise up and threaten to overtake them each time they get comfortable leaves them barely any room to breathe in their suits. It’s a little easier in civvies to make impacts on the community.
Peter is the type of kid to not even see just
how
big of an impact that leaves, especially in Gotham.
…Jason also considers how Alessandra is like that, too.
From what he saw on the research Tim compiled about her, she’s a firefighter in the Tri-Corner. She comes from a large Italian-American family that’s lived in Gotham for two generations, but
isn’t
involved in the mafia, which is a statistical
wonder
in Gotham. She went from Romano to Romano-Esposito after marrying Giovanni Esposito, and she has a daughter named Teresa. There was a stint of her life where she had been injured in one of the last Firefly’s attacks and she lost her memories for a while, but she came back stronger than ever. She looks so nice and normal in every aspect of her life that they thought
something
must be wrong with her, but she doesn’t have a lick of a criminal history.
And she looks
so much
like Peter. Acts like him, too.
Was this what Peter’s parents were like in his home universe, too? Did they get enough time to pass that down to him? What about that Ben and May of his? What were
they
like? Jason would have loved to meet them, to sit down for dinner and see if their light looked anything like his brothers.
(But his brother is dead, in Peter’s universe. Dead, left behind a kid. He had a wife and a whole different family. What were they like to him? Had they been kind? Had they been able to help Dick grieve his parents? Had they all cried when Dick had to apparently change his name? Did they mourn the Graysons with him?
Did they hold him? Did this Ben, his brother’s different brother, take care of him? What was it like for Dick to be the little brother, not the older one? Did he even know Jason? Did he know Babs, Tim, Steph, Duke, Damian, Alfred? Did he have Bruce? Or were they all separated, strangers to each other not just in name, but in existence? Or, did his family not exist at all, and Dick was the only one of them?
Was he happy? Did that version of his big brother even get the time he deserved? When he left Peter behind, did he get any time to mourn the life he lost?)
“He’s coming down, yeah. It might be a second, he’s saying bye to Benny.” Jason answers Maps, ignoring the inner turmoil. Her eyes light up and another kid pumps his fist with excitement, but then she tilts her head in confusion. “How do you all of you know him?”
“Peter helped my Papa fix the broken steps to the community center.” A boy volunteers, apparently no longer nervous. “He’s really super cool! And he’s Spider-Man’s friend!”
“We gotta tell him we made an A on our science project!” One girl chimes in.
“Why do you have a suitcase?” Maps questions, suspicious eyes on the trunk. Observant, isn’t she, this strange little girl?
“…Peter’s moving in with me.” Jason tells her.
Instead of frowning like the other kids, Maps puffs up with all the vigor of a protective dragon in a near instant.
“And who are
you?
Where’s he going? Are you normal? How long have you known him? You’re not CPS, are you? Because then we’d have to fight you. Do you have a criminal record? If so, what for? If you don’t, what’s wrong with you that the cops like you? Is this your car? It doesn’t look like it belongs to you. Is car theft on your criminal record? Does Peter know you have a criminal record? Does Peter know you stole this car? Did you make Peter steal this car? How old are you? You look like you’re forty five. Are-”
“Are you going to let me
answer
questions or am I just supposed to sit here?”
Maps snaps her mouth shut, cheeks puffed up as if physically holding her words in.
“I’m Jason. He’s going with me and my family. I’ve known him about a month. I’m not CPS. You would lose a fight, Pipsqueak, so don’t get into one. I don’t have to tell you my criminal record. This is not my car, it’s my Old Man’s. I am not forty five, and telling people they look old is rude.”
“Who’s your family? Who’s your Old Man? I still think you’re old-”
“Bruce Wayne.” Jason grins at the way her eyes bug out of her head. “That’s my Old Man.”
“You’re lying.” Maps breathes out, suspicious. Her friend, on the other hand, with zero hesitation:
“Whoa! Peter got Bruced!” He slaps another kid’s arm to emphasize his point. The other rubs his shoulder with a pout. “I told you! He’s really nice, like that Grayson guy! And that Timothy guy!”
“It was only a matter of time…” Science Project girl sighs, all melancholy.
“What was only a matter of time?” Peter opens the door to Benny’s, the bell chiming. He has his backpack over his shoulder and a Benny’s to-go bag in his hand that looks laden with food. The kids’ heads snap up to him quick as the Flash, and Peter raises a brow as he lets the door close. “I was just gonna come see you guys. What’s going on here? You’re not pestering Jason, are you?”
“You’re leaving
forever!?”
Maps squeaks at him. Peter’s eyes widen in surprise, and he glances at Jason for answers. “This old guy said you’re leaving forever!”
“Not once did that come out of my mouth, Cartography.” Jason flicks the back of her head. She smacks her hands over the spot and glares at him. Jason can’t help but laugh- she’s like a particularly pissed off bird, and again he’s reminded of Tim.
“I’m not… leaving forever.” Peter tells her, smile sort of thin. Jason and he both know that Peter
could
be, because at any point, this could all be resolved and he’d get back to his home universe. “I’m just going to go live with the Waynes.”
“You got adopted by Brucie?” One boy asks.
Peter shakes his head. “No, no. I, uh-” It’s at this very second that Jason realizes something. Dick and Peter were supposed to go over a backstory for this exact scenario. But if Peter was told about the parent thing and didn’t get the chance…
“His cousin.” Jason fills in. It’s the only story that makes sense, really. A long lost cousin, rather than Dick being a teenage parent. They could have just said they weren’t related- but anyone looking at the two of them side by side would be able to put two and two together. It’s easier to say they’re related and just have really strong genes on that side of the family.
“Yeah, my cousin. He’s taking me in.”
“…Bruce Wayne is your cousin?” One girl does
not
believe him at all. She looks pointedly at Peter’s tan skin, and then looks around like she’ll find a billboard with Bruce’s pasty face on it. “How far related are you?”
“No,
Bruce
is not my cousin.” Peter snorts.
“Dick Grayson?” Maps guesses.
Okay, damn,
incredibly
observant child. Hadn’t even seen them side by side yet and she’s got them clocked. Peter reaches over to ruffle her hair, then fixes it for her almost immediately.
“Good guess, Maps.” Peter’s compliment makes her stand up straighter. “I’ll be coming back to visit when I can. Don’t worry about that, okay?” Peter tells them, but mostly looks at Maps. She is their little pack leader, after all, and the most worried about him. After a moment of apparent telepathy between the two, Maps pouts but nods slowly in understanding. Peter smiles at her, and it brings out a smile in Maps as well.
“Okay, so show me the mural that got put up?” He’s pulling open the to-go bag, and he doesn’t even have to look at their hungry faces before he’s handing out burgers to them. Maps takes the last burger with a lot of admiration on her face.
The kids hurry up the street, Maps hand-in-hand with one of the younger girls. Peter is surprised when Jason walks with them, the two of them at the far back. But like hell Jason is leaving Peter alone anywhere. He hadn’t wanted to
before
Peter lived in the Manor, and now that they have the excuse to always have at least one person with the kid, Jason is secure that he won’t get easily kidnapped on their watch.
Another point for the Bats vs Tony: they wouldn’t let that happen.
They walk in silence for a little bit, the noon-traffic slow enough that they could actually talk if they wanted to, which makes the silence feel thicker. The kids are none the wiser, chatting away to each other, waving to some adults they know as they get closer to the community center a couple blocks over from Benny’s.
Finally, Jason finds something to talk about that isn’t the elephant in the room.
“So how fast did they get attached to you?”
Peter shrugs, kicking a rock on the sidewalk. “I passed by them a few times while I was getting to know Gotham’s layout, and we talked a few times, made sure they had somewhere to go. Spider-Man pointed them in my direction after some bullies broke their science project. I didn’t think they’d be that sad to see me go.”
“‘Course they would be,” Jason says it without thinking about it. “You’re a good kid, Pete. They don’t have to know you long to want you to stick around.”
It’s not until after the words have left his mouth that Jason thinks that it hits close to home. Something twists in his chest, as Peter stops mid-wave at a neighbor to look at him, something vulnerable in his expression that reminds Jason too much of how he felt when Bruce said he cared about him and Jason knew he meant it.
He
hasn’t known Peter that long, none of them have. But they got attached to him anyway. He just fits right in with them all, like he was always meant to be there, sitting at the table. He even filled out that last room on the second floor that’s always empty- besides Jason’s old room, that neither he nor Bruce can bear to walk into. A staple of the Wayne family wing, a part of their tree that they don’t want to cut off.
Jason doesn’t want him to leave. The Wayne family has a hard time saying goodbye. The ones that they do have are always bitter, or filled with heartache, or come far,
far
too soon. Saying goodbye is something they’ve all had to do. But to know the people they’re saying goodbye to will never come back…
He can see the second Peter decides to file that away. He turns to watch where he’s walking, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched up, feigning a relaxed posture. Jason didn’t want
that
to happen, and it eats away at him. Kids should not have the ghosts of trauma on their faces. They should be
happy,
free of the burdens that come with life. He wants to say something to make it- better? More right? He doesn’t know if that applies here, because that’s what Jason
feels,
and he doesn’t want to take it back.
Turns out, he doesn’t have to say anything. Peter bumps his shoulder into Jason’s arm as a recognition of the words they don’t have yet. Relieved that nothing’s too far from reach, Jason sets his arm around Peter’s shoulders.
“Look, Peter!” Maps shouts from up ahead.
She’s pointing at the wall of the community center facing the street, the biggest, proudest smile on her face. The mural is there in all it’s glory, people pointing to it as they pass by, taking photos in front of it.
Spider-Man and Damian’s Robin are swinging together over the
Upper East End
Community
sign. Robin is
actually
grinning, cape pulled back in the wind like bird wings, grapple in hand. Spider-Man is above him, arm reached out for another web. Somehow, it doesn’t look like it’s from Gotham despite it depicting a Gotham vigilante (and another that people should
think
is a Gotham vigilante, because they would be none the wiser).
The colors are vibrant, bold in a way that’s not neon, but rich and eye catching. Whoever painted this had put a lot of thought into that, into the small details of the webs on the corners of the wall, on the wind under Robin’s cape, of making the lights on the painted buildings in the background look warm and bright.
Peter stops walking, eyes wide like that wasn’t the image he was expecting. And sure enough, Maps shyly admits, “It’s not the garden flowers that we originally wanted to put… But we thought this was better. It makes more sense. The Robins always start their patrols in the East End, but this Robin stuck around longer…”
“And Spider-Man is ours now too!” One kid adds excitedly.
“Who- Who painted this? It looks amazing.” Peter’s grin is very real.
Maps shakes her hands out as she talks, absolutely beaming with Peter’s reaction. “Well, when we got approved for the mural, we went around asking if anyone knew any artists that would want to work with us, and that’s when we met Miss Florence! She owns that art shop down on Baker street, you know, the one with the cat? When we told her our idea, she said she and her daughter Analetta like Spider-Man too! She’s the one who painted it.!”
“Robin stopped by last night to help too!” Science project girl informs them.
“Oh,
did
he now?” Jason is never going to let the Baby Bat live this down. Never, in a million years,
ever.
That must have been where he escaped to for a few while they were on patrol last night. “That must have been pretty cool. Was he nice to everyone?”
“He was! Maps was
freaking
out.”
“I did not!” Maps’ face flushes bright red.
“Did too! She’s a Robin super-fan!” One boy hits her shoulder with a cheeky grin. “And Spider-Man now too, she’s the one who remembered their suit designs enough for Miss Flo to sketch out.”
“I just think they’re neat!” She protests weakly, toeing the ground with one foot shyly. “You really like it?” She asks Peter, hopeful.
“It’s seriously beautiful.” Peter looks up at the mural. Jason wishes he could read the kid’s mind sometime. It should be impossible to look so sad and so happy at the same time. “I bet Spider-Man likes it too.”
-
NOV 3
Peter is not pleased that Alfred has him on recovery. Bruce doesn’t need to be a mind reader or have a sixth sense in order to understand
that.
As frustrated as Peter is, he hadn’t tried to sneak out yesterday night to go gallivanting off on patrol without anyone knowing, like one Timothy Drake-Wayne or Damian Wayne, when they get the gall to do so. Nor does he defy Alfred in any way, shape, or form. He’s a perfectly polite kid, saying his thank you’s and please’s, and he doesn’t argue about the food.
(Not that there’s much to argue
about.
Alfred might be British, but the man can cook a damn good meal. Peter isn’t unsatisfied with that aspect, and he shivers less often now that he has two days of nutritious meals and several snacks helping his body catch up. Alfred has it all down to a science, and by the end of the week, there will be a difference, that’s for sure.)
He’s not fighting it, but he’s not happy about it either. Peter had wanted to go out on patrol last night, but Alfred has given him another couple days before he can do anything. It’s a standard that they all have to deal with. Stephanie herself is grounded from patrol (Alfred’s, not Bruce’s, fault) until her stab wound won’t reopen. Bruce hadn’t been sure how that would go down, because Peter is a very independent kid. But he must have some sort of understanding with Alfred, if he’s willing to go along with it. Or maybe he knows that his body needs the proper food in order to be strong.
Or, the third option: he is not immune to Alfred, just like the rest of them.
No matter what the reason, it looks like Peter has found a way to occupy himself while waiting the recovery period out.
Bruce walked into the BatCave about an hour ago to find Peter sitting at one of the workshop tables. He was typing away at a program on the computer, notebooks and tools scattered about in front of him in a haphazard mess that was likely a system only he would understand. For a split second, it was like Bruce was looking at 14 year old Dick as the kid learns a new coding technique that Babs had taught him. Tongue stuck out the side and the same concentrated furrow of the brow and everything.
He doesn’t want to hover over Peter’s shoulder to find out, because he’s learned by now that the others don’t appreciate that. But he also can’t see from where he’s sitting what is on the computer screen, and Bruce is pretty curious to see what’s got him so worked up. Because the BatCave is in a state of calm, the way it is before everyone arrives to get ready for patrol, except for Peter’s little corner of the workshop.
Dick is up on another level with Jason, the two of them sparring together. Damian is checking his utility belt and restocking what he needs. Duke and Tim are a few steps away, working on a robot that Bruce is at least 90% sure is designed to steal their shoes. He won’t tell the others, but mostly out of a curiosity to see how many they can steal before someone notices. Peter has pulled his legs up on his stool (which should not be a comfortable way to sit at all), and as the minutes pass by, he grows more and more upset.
That isn’t a change from what he’s been doing the last two days.
Like he said- Peter is not happy, and Bruce doesn’t need to be a genius in order to tell. Like his father, Peter is wrapped up in a lot of emotions, and he has the same coping mechanism: pretending everything is fine.
He thought that hanging out with Jason for pretty much an entire day would have helped some to clear his mind, and at least make it less awkward between him and Dick somehow. But things are never
that
easy, he should have known better.
When Peter isn’t smiling and talking to everyone like nothing happened, the kid scowls when he’s lost in his thoughts, or his face shuts down any emotions whatsoever. He’s basically a mirror of his father- who, at the moment, is haunting the halls of Wayne Manor like he died a hundred years ago and his afterlife is nothing but grieving. And when they do manage to be in the same room, Peter avoids looking or talking in Dick’s general direction. He isn’t
ignoring
Dick, per say, just avoiding eye contact like it might actually kill him. That, or he finds any excuse to leave the room.
Unfortunately for Dick, his usual excuses come from Damian, of all people. Bruce doesn’t know how they clicked so fast, but he’s grateful for it. Damian will sense the discomfort, or Ace will alert, and he’ll make up a reason to bring Peter somewhere else.
“I’m feeding the turkeys.”
(This had been met with Peter’s delight.)
“I’m going to watch the Housewives.”
(Bruce has never known Damian to admit that he watches this show. Apparently, it became cool when Peter said he also liked it.)
“Alfred the Cat has a new sweater that just came in.”
(Damian took a thousand photos and sent his top 40 to the group chat. Peter was in a few of them, as well as Damian, and Bruce spied Dick’s home screen has a new wallpaper with them both.)
It’s great that the two get along, but Bruce is getting worried about how long Dick can last like this. And it’s only day two.
Peter is currently in the state where he’s not shut down or pretending he’s fine. Whatever it is that he’s working on over there, it has him muttering under his breath and angrily scratching away at his notes.
Bruce is pretending to be focused on maintaining a grappling hook when Peter huffs, turns the computer all the way around to face the corner, and says, “Time out for bad codes.”
Tim snorts at that, looking away from the wires in his hand. “What’d the code do to you?”
“Existed.”
Peter practically hisses. He picks up his backpack off the floor, shoves his arm inside, and pulls out a wrist band. When he sets it on the table, he presses a hidden button on the side and it uncompacts. Peter unlatches the side and hooks it around his forearm, the screen lighting up.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” Duke scoots backwards on his rolling chair and meets Peter at his table. He points at the tech, a fascinated gleam in his eyes, barely resisting the urge to make grabbing hand motions. “You’ve been holding back on me, Spider-Man? What is this?”
Peter, gently surprised, tells him, “It’s just something I’ve been using to detect Ohnn’s spacial jumps. Senses the pressure in the air, sort of works like a weather radar. I’m calling it the Jumping Radar until I figure out an acronym.”
“I like Jumping Radar.” Duke comments thoughtfully, eyeing the tech hard enough that Peter takes it off of his arm and hands it to Duke. Duke grins excitedly at this, already turning it over to see the smaller components up close. “It also sounds like ‘jumping spider’. Suits you and your theme.”
Peter perks up at that, some of his earlier dissent slipping away. “Oh. Really?”
“Really.”
“You know, that’s a
really
good idea, actually.” Tim sits up, foregoing his own work. He sets the wires down, gazing up at the ceiling before deciding to scoot his chair backwards like Duke had. He observes the Jumping Radar just as closely as Duke is, hovering over the tool and having to brush his hair away from his face. Peter glances between him and Duke, leaning forward eagerly like a kid listening to a story. “How accurate is this, you think?”
“Pretty accurate?” Peter guesses. “It gives me a few seconds of notice before he appears, which is enough right now. But it’d be more accurate if I could figure out how to import it into the nanite tech.”
That doesn’t just catch Tim and Duke’s attention; it also catches Bruce’s.
Bruce’s blood runs cold, trying to tell himself that it might mean something different for Peter. Nanite technology is used to affect the biological systems of metahumans, in this world. Not something that is pulled out casually in conversation, like Peter referred it with. It could take away their powers for periods of time, used in experimentation.
He hadn’t forgotten that Peter’s powers meant that he had been experimented on. And when pulling his blood when he was in and out of consciousness after Firefly, they had gone through several different needles before Peter stopped reaching over to break them and had stayed passed out.
“You use nanite tech? Isn’t that dangerous?” Duke, the only powered person in the room besides Peter, is rightly uncomfortable with that.
“What? No, why would it be? I mean, unless it gets in the wrong hands, maybe? But they’d have to be able to work out the interface, and no one can use it without Tony giving an override. Or me, I guess.”
Peter pulls up his sleeve to show off the bracelet that’s always around his wrist. He pulls it back when he wears those clever webshooters of his, but it’s always there. The metal shines, inconspicuous. Alfred had kept Peter’s tech separate from the rest of his clothes, and Bruce recalls the bracelet had been set away from the tech.
“I don’t use it, but Tony does. His Iron Man suit is made of his nanite technology. Before Ohnn brought me here, Tony was able to send this to my wrist. I wanted to see if I could take the Jumping Radar and put it into the nanite tech, but what I’m wanting to do won’t work until I can create an AI more advanced than HAFI or Little Legs. They can’t even self generate right now because they’re not connected to anything.”
“Okay, okay, I have a ton of questions now, because that’s nothing like I thought you were about to show me.” Duke sits up, putting both his hands in the air in front of him as he tries to think. Peter, oblivious to what they were all thinking, blinks at him. “Firstly, Tony is Iron Man, you mentioned that. But what exactly is his, uh, thing? I guess? His suit is made up of these nanobots…? Okay, scratch that question.
How
does this work? I need to know everything or I’ll die.”
“We were trying to hold off on asking you all about your universe but…” Tim doesn’t look the least bit guilty.
Peter grins when Tim hands him back the Jumping Radar. He sets it down, trying to find the best words to describe it.
Bruce has to admit that he’s been curious about this as well. Peter hasn’t mentioned much about his home universe yet, besides Tony and Loki, and apparently, a score of villains that he has. Bruce can’t help but wonder what this universe must be like, if there are counterparts between heroes, or if everyone there is different from here. There has to be
some
cross overs, if Peter is a hero there, and Dick is a hero here.
(His chest twists with a pain all too heartbreakingly familiar when Bruce remembers his son is
dead
in Peter’s world. Dead, and having an entirely different family. Bruce knew that alternate universes likely existed, and that realistically, there had to be versions where they didn’t all know each other. But another part of him hoped that in every universe, his family would be together, and in every other universe, they’d be happy, healthy, and whole. Even if it meant that he wasn’t there for them, and someone else was.
But even in a world where Bruce isn’t their family, he loses a son.)
“…Tony is the most brilliant man in the world. At least, in my opinion.” Peter tells them honestly. He has that comfortable smile that he gets when he thinks about his mentor. “There’s plenty of other heroes that are smart, like Dr. Banner. But Tony’s field of expertise is engineering. He owns Stark Industries, the largest tech conglomerate in the world. Pretty much all of our tech is Stark-made, from phones to the big stuff like city-wide generators. The second biggest is OSCORP, but they’re nowhere near Stark level.”
Peter thinks on it for a second, glancing at Bruce. “Actually, I think it’s kind of like Wayne Industries. I guess, in terms of
‘being known world wide.’
I see a lot less people hate Bruce, though, so I think that’s where the similarities stop? Like, everyone knows that Tony is Iron Man, but no one knows that Bruce is Batman.”
“Everyone knows? Like, in your cape community?” Duke leans back in his chair, contemplative.
“Oh, ew, you call it a cape community?” Peter actually winces. Tim’s brows raise, a ghost of a laugh on his lips, but Peter is already apologizing. “Sorry, that was rude. We don’t get a lot of heroes with capes in my world. You guys would like Thor, I guess. And, uh, no. It’s not just our heroes. It’s everyone in the world.”
That sounds so monumentally stupid that Bruce almost forgets to
think.
He doesn’t even pretend that he’s not eavesdropping on their conversation anymore- it’s just that
that
was so much of a slap in the face to hear that he couldn’t sit idly by. “You’re telling me
everyone
in the
world
knows his identity? How is that even safe?”
Peter side eyes him for a second without answering. When he does, he admits, “It’s complicated.”
“How did he get found out?” Tim asks before Bruce can. This might be the first time they get real information on Tony, and now that they are, Bruce is wondering how Peter didn’t get kidnapped
sooner.
If Bruce came out as Batman, his entire family would be at risk within the hour. And here Tony is adopting a kid into a situation like that? No sense of privacy?
Alright, a bit hypocritical. Bruce’s kids are always in the spotlight despite how much of the press is scared of him, Clark, and Lois. But it’s a different level of threat when it’s asking villains to show up at your doorstep.
“He sort of… told everyone?” Peter laughs. Bruce
does not
find it funny, not even a little bit. “He got kidnapped in Afghanistan by some terrorists. They wanted him to build a Jericho missile for them”
Jericho missle?
“-but he instead built the Mark I Iron Man suit. Which was really cool because he was, like, dying from shrapnel in his chest and he was in a cave and had basically nothing to work with.”
???
“He stopped Stark Industries from manufacturing weapons when he realized how much damage they were doing, fought his ex business partner who also had a suit? And SHIELD was all like, ‘you gotta have a cover story’ because that’s, like, all they do, ever. And Tony is gonna Tony, so when he was on live TV for his press conference, he just told everyone he was Iron Man.”
…Bruce can not wrap his mind about that.
Not the part about the backstory. That… is whatever. He’s used to insane backstories like that, so he’s stopped asking questions even if they nag at the part of his brain that wants to know more. But the part where Tony was
explicitly advised
to have a cover story by what sounds like an organization that involves heroes, and he went ahead and did
the exact opposite of that.
He would never let Peter know it, because he really was trying to like or at least understand Tony after realizing their mistaken assumptions, but…
“So, his Iron Man suits are made up of nanite tech. Which is
not
nanobots that go into your bloodstream.” Duke clarifies.
“Yes- wait what?” Peter does a double take.
“You said it needs an AI to work? What exactly
are
nanites, in your world?” Duke asks, likely sensing that they were about to go down a rabbit hole. Peter squints at him, wanting to press for more, but leaves it be for now.
“They’re microscopic machines that build off of each other to make larger structures. They’re powered by an internal energy source, but to give it commands so that it can reconfigure itself and the like, I would connect it to an AI.” Peter reaches into his hair, and when he brings his hand back down, there’s a thin spider on his finger. It looks like a harvestman spider, but it has a thicker abdomen.
Duke jumps back with a horrified screech, Tim leans forward with interest. Peter tilts his head and snickers at Duke’s reaction.
“The AI would have to be more advanced than Little Legs here.” The tiny spider reaches it’s front two legs out towards them, and Duke groans, pushing Tim in front of him. “He’s not gonna
bite
you, Duke. He’s a bot, not a real spider. And even if he did- which, again, impossible, he doesn’t have pinchers- it wouldn’t hurt. Trust me,
I’d
know.”
Bruce is glad that Peter finds humor in that, but Bruce does not. Again, it’s more questions that Bruce wants to ask, but knows he has to hold back on. Bruce is not… comfortable, not knowing the information needed about this other world. He’s hoping that once Peter gets settled into Wayne Manor a little more, he’ll be up to answering the questions that Bruce has.
Like how he was bitten by a genetically mutated,
radioactive
spider, and no adult noticed. Or if they
did
notice, and that’s why Peter is cagey about telling people.
“Little Legs has to be the cutest name for this guy. You made him?” Tim peers at the AI. Bruce can see the cogs turning in his mind, and he huffs with amusement knowing that Tim is going to want to learn more about this so he could perhaps make his own.
…Bruce should be worried about Tony and Tim meeting.
“Yeah, with Tony’s help.” Peter’s amused grin starts to fade into something bittersweet as he thinks more on it. “We made him and HAFI together. But that’s all the AI I’ve done so far… I was attempting to try and make at least HAFI, because he was rudimentary enough that I could maybe work off of him, but it’s a lot harder without Tony. He’d know what to do better than I could.”
Ah, that must be where his annoyance from earlier came from. Bruce glances at the computer that is still in time out at the same time Peter does. Peter is giving it a glare like it personally was keeping Peter stuck in their world.
“And there’s no way I’d be able to create a FRIDAY all on my own. I’m actually far more into biochem like my dad was than I am with engineering.”
…This time, the referral to ‘dad’ isn’t attributed to Tony, is it? So Dick’s counterpart worked in biochemistry? Bruce would have never considered it, but he supposes that’s because Dick is more into the engineering side of science in this universe, so there’s a bias there. While Tim has a lot more focus on computers, Dick actually has a talent in building and designing.
Peter tenses when he fully considers his own words. He doesn’t acknowledge what he said, and the topic is still far too fresh for anyone else to want to press him on it. ‘Dad’ is a taboo word at the moment.
“We should put the Jumping Radar around town.”
Peter, halfway through trying to convince Duke to hold Little Legs, glances up at Tim. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t be out in the city all the time, nor can you be two places at once-” Bruce doesn’t miss the narrowing of Tim’s eyes that always accompanies him when he says ‘
debatable.’
“-so we could place other Jumping Radars around Gotham. It could collect information, too, and we could start to see where he appears most often.”
“That’s… really smart.” Peter admits, scratching the back of his neck.
“We could also try to help you with the AI, if you’d like?” Duke offers, a hesitant thing. “Tim and I both are into coding and stuff. And Babs, too. Actually, no one beats Babs at this sort of thing. It might not be this FRIDAY you mentioned, but…”
He trails off when he sees Peter’s face. He’s returned to the ghost of himself, turning away from them while trying to plaster a grin on his face, but looking far more pained than it should be. Bruce wishes he could say something to make that disappear, but he knows there’s not a lot
he
could say that could make the pain stop.
“Yeah, maybe.” Peter replies. Bruce watches as Duke’s gaze turns softer, but determined. Like he’s just made up his mind about something.
“In the meantime, you need a break from your current project.” Tim grabs Peter’s stool. Without getting up from his own chair, he begins dragging Peter backwards towards his and Duke’s workspace. Bruce shakes his head at the sound of the stool scraping the metal floor, and Tim is lucky that Alfred wasn’t here to scold him. “Remember that robot we talked about before?”
“You mean when you were stalking me and then Steph kidnapped me to Batburger?”
“Yeah, that one. I’m making you another accomplice.”
-
NOV 4
Damian enjoys a good challenge.
The League was nothing but challenges, nothing but trails and tests, nothing but sacrifices for the sake of his Grandfather. Damian had spent nearly his entire soul for them, trained away all of the love he could hold. “Love” made people weak, made them foolish and irrational. It was something that was reserved for the riffraff of the world, the ones that were not destined for greatness.
Love was for little kids, and Damian was not given the privilege of being a child. He was always a weapon.
Well, Damian also wasn’t allowed to have an identity in any way, shape, or form. The challenges that he actually enjoyed- which were puzzles, mysteries, questions of life- were stripped away for what was more “useful.” The League was full of expectations that Damian could not escape. Not until he met his family.
Losing Father so soon after meeting him, after only just getting to see a glimpse of who he was, and then being forced to grow without him there, left a stitch in his heart that will never truly be repaired. But at least when they met again, Damian had learned that love was not a weakness. That life was more than the weak and the strong. That it wasn’t just being nothing before you were here, being nothing after, and being set to have a purpose in the meantime. He was someone that he actually wanted his Father to meet and learn about.
It was all thanks to Richard that it happened.
He had a terrible habit of seeing right through the walls that Damian set up to protect himself and seeing the hollow, vulnerable parts that were left behind. Damian owes the person he is now to Richard and his patience, his never ending faith of wanting to do more, to
be more
for people. Following in his footsteps felt more right than any lesson that League had ever taught him, and not once was he met with pain when he failed to meet Richard in the next step.
There were no raised fists, no locked, dark rooms. No fresh wounds on his back left to bleed and stain his shirt. There had only been compassion, understanding, and a willingness to stay. Perhaps that’s why Damian can not sit idly by as he witnesses one of the most important people in his life go through a trial that he can not walk alone.
Though Damian will tell himself that it is merely because he likes a challenge.
The training section is on the first level of the Cave, with three rooms in total. There’s a larger platform where they do their warm ups before going on a patrol, where Timothy and Duke are at now, stretching and talking idly about their school work. There’s two sets of stairs on either side of metal bleachers that lead down into a sunken sparring room. This is where Damian is with Peter, sitting on the bleachers after Damian had gotten done with his own exercises. The sparring room is wide enough that they could run a simulation of most scenarios, but it isn’t as comprehensive as the actual simulation room that the Justice League has.
On their right, there’s a wall to wall (reinforced) glass partition that separates the sparring room and the weightlifting area. Father and Richard are there, chatting with each other. Peter is pretending that he’s looking around the sparring room with interest, but his eyes will glide over towards the weightlifting room, a thoughtful furrow in his brow when he foolishly believes Damian isn’t paying attention.
“You know that staring at Richard isn’t going to clear anything up for you, right?”
Peter, caught red handed, is upset for a brief second. Damian wonders if maybe this is the moment Peter decides he actually does hate Damian’s abrasive nature, but then the boy just sighs, no fight in him.
“I dunno, staring is working so far.”
“You could, I don’t know,
talk
to him. Just a thought. Might be hard for you to have, but you’ll get there if you actually try.”
“There’s nothing to talk
about.”
Peter insists. Damian scoffs, because that’s the boldest lie that he’s ever heard.
“There’s
plenty
to talk about, you just don’t
want
to, like a coward. You mentioned before that you have a habit of avoiding tough conversations and you appreciate my bluntness? This is me being blunt. Can’t get any more clear than this: You’re getting nowhere at a spectacular rate. Unless this is about you not knowing where to start, then perhaps I can help. How about you write the topics down, throw them in a hat, and I’ll pick it for you so you can
get it over with?”
The other boy huffs at that, as if the notion of talking about anything is inconceivable. Damian rolls his eyes, turning from stretching his legs to face Peter. “You’re avoiding him.”
“And you’ve been
helping
me avoid him.” Peter grunts back. He puts his chin on his hand, elbow on his knee, and is making a huge show of not looking in Richard’s direction.
He’s got Damian there, he
has
been doing that. “I was giving you a grace period and time to reflect. Richard does it all the time. That’s what he’s doing now.” Peter turns his gaze back onto Damian, something calculating in his eye. Damian presses on unabashedly. “It’s been three days where you’ve been given time to think about it, and even today, you had the Manor to
yourself
and Alfred while we were at work or school. Meaning uninterrupted access to your thoughts.”
Damian had tried to get
out
of going to school, for many reasons. Mostly because he thinks it’s pointless, considering he has written five doctoral theses and his teachers are as stale as saltines left out for days and as blank as a fresh printer paper, so they teach him nothing of value. But another reason being that Peter would likely hate being left alone all day. Sort of like how Ace needed Titus, because as well as he gets along with Alfred the Cat, Ace needed a companion that could keep up with him.
He had not gotten out of school, and when he said exactly that to Father, the man had just seemed amused more than helpful.
“I thought you liked Richard.”
Peter sits up straighter, brow twitching with annoyance. “I
do.”
“Then why are you avoiding him? He wants to help you just like the rest of us do.” Damian hadn’t caught the ‘us’ until it was out of his mouth. But it’s too late now to take it back, and unlike his brothers that would have pointed it out to tease him, Peter doesn’t acknowledge it.
“I
know
that he wants to help. I’m not a moron. I
get
that part.” Peter sounds more upset than Damian is likely meant to understand.
“Then what don’t you get?”
Peter doesn’t reply. He just chews his cheek, stewing in his emotional turmoil just like the rest of their dramatic family.
And with that, he can practically
hear
everyone’s voices in his head, telling him to back off for now and try again later. What Damian wants is to see Richard happy, and Richard would be happy if Peter and him were not at odds at the moment. But Peter can not come forward until he gets over whatever it is that is bothering him. However, Peter can’t get over what is bothering him if he doesn’t talk to Richard. And Richard is giving him space so that they don’t talk, which is making him sad.
It’s a never ending circle that frustrates Damian to no end.
Damian understands that this must be a lot to be alright with. Losing his parents, whatever happened in between, and then getting to an alternate reality where they’re both alive. But that’s just it- they’re both
alive.
They may not be the parents that Peter was supposed to have, but isn’t this a golden opportunity? To be able to learn about his parents in some way? Or is it really that painful to see Richard’s face?
The question is forming on his lips before he can stop himself, but Peter cuts in right before it.
“Does this room go through simulations?”
Missed opportunity. He’ll try again at a later date like originally planned. “Yes. There’s a similar room in the Watchtower and some other League locations. Do you have something similar in your universe?”
“FRIDAY and I run through simulations every Thursday so I can ‘develop problem solving skills and critical thinking’, whatever that means.” Peter recalls. He cranes his neck to see the top of the room, where the generator for the simulations runs. “And you guys have a Tower also? What’s yours like?”
Now
that
piques Damian’s interest more than talk of simulations. He sits up, trying to think of which question to ask first. Damian had gotten such an annoying earful from his family for his questioning at dinner (which he does
not
understand, because the conversation was going to happen anyways, and they learned something from it, and Peter wasn’t upset about it), that he was biting his tongue about any more questions about Peter’s past. Just so that he wont’ get another damn lecture.
“The Watchtower is a secret Justice League base that orbits Earth. Your… Avengers.
Tt,
what a weird name for a hero league.” Damian complains, and Peter raises a brow as if to say
‘And you’re any better?’
because he has no taste. “Your Avengers have a Watchtower?”
Peter shrugs, leaning back on his elbows on the bleacher behind him. “Not a Watchtower. I don’t think we have bases floating around Earth or whatever. But then again, SHIELD is picky about telling me anything. Or, really, telling
anyone
anything.”
Damian is about to ask what SHIELD is, but Peter continues on.
“I live at the Avengers Tower, in Manhattan. It’s not top secret though. It used to be called Stark Tower, but now that the Avengers live there, it’s gotten a new name.”
“Your Avengers all
live
together?” Damian thinks that would be a recipe for disaster if they tried that here. The dynamics between all of the cape community is ever changing and hard to care about. “Don’t you all have your own cities to take care of?”
“That does sound a little out there.” Timothy’s voice joins them. He’s already sitting down behind them on the bleachers, Duke well on his way to tagging along. Peter isn’t surprised that they’re there.
“It’s not
exactly
like that? Pepper and Tony live there, ‘cause like I said, it used to be Stark Tower. We live there full time, and so do some of the others that don’t have their own families and stuff. Most of my mentors live in the Tower and sort of cycle around from place to place. Really, the Tower is more of a headquarters that everyone has the option to stay at. Spider-Man mostly sticks to Queens, ‘cause that’s where I grew up, but I travel around Brooklyn and the other parts of New York too from time to time. We have our own places to be, but it’s not like the others have
specific
cities. They go where SHIELD asks them to, or if their own shit comes up.”
“So your Avengers aren’t self-sustaining? You keep bringing up this SHIELD organization.” Duke points out.
“The Avengers were formed by SHIELD, which is an extra-government anti-terrorist organization. Things are kind of… testy, right now.” Peter hums in thought. “A lot of people don’t like mutants or enhanced people. They think we should be regulated more because of how many villains tear shit up, and that’s where SHIELD came in. They formed the Avengers during an alien invasion, and they just kind of stuck around. It makes people feel better to have a group formed for that specific purpose.”
“So, who all is on the team?” Tim asks. “Iron Man, you, and who else?”
“There’s at least one assassin.” Damian crosses his arms.
That causes Tim and Duke to look at him in mild surprise, but Peter grins as if he’d been waiting for Damian to bring it up. “And how’d you know that? Guessing by statistics?”
“You were trained by one. I wouldn’t miss that.” Damian replies. “Though you do not kill, your movements are precise and pointed when you do go in for an attack, but you use mostly use evasive techniques that are similar to what the League of Assassins would teach.”
“I
knew
you were trained by an assassin, you walk
just
like Miss Natasha does.” Peter turns around to face Damian fully on the bench. “Actually, most of you do. But my spider-sense puts you and Miss Natasha in the same category.”
“Natasha?”
“Natasha Romanoff. She’s the world’s most talented assassin, the Black Widow. She’s one of my mentors, and a founding member of the Avengers.”
“You know, I’m sensing a theme in the naming here.” Duke points out. “Iron Man, Black Widow… Spider-Man is kind of like a mash up of that. Does everyone have to have ‘man’ or a spider related thing for their name?”
“Hey! Spider-Man is an
original!
At least I’m not named after a traffic direction.”
“My name is
symbolic!”
“Excuse me that I don’t know your lore.”
“You hadn’t asked!”
Peter pauses, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “You know what? You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s better than Copyright over here.” He jabs a thumb at Timothy, who scoffs in offense. “What
is
your lore?”
Duke claps his hands together, happy with his success. Before he can tell him, Timothy butts in. “Excuse you?”
“Don’t ‘
excuse me.’
You’re named after a restaurant! Doesn’t exactly inspire the fear of justice into people.”
“What are you
talking
about?”
“No, no, he’s right. Even without the apparently real restaurant that he has in his universe, didn’t you name yourself after one of Jace’s old aliases? Or was it Dick’s before that? I can never remember. Because y’know, you guys
love
not having your own names.”
“Duke gets it!” Peter sounds like he’s been waiting for someone to say it. “I’m still hung up on Superboy, and the fact that you guys have all shared a hero identity. And now you’re telling me there’s
more?”
“Duke
was a Robin, by technicality. He was literally the leader of the We Are Robin movement. He’s talking out of his ass right now.”
“Wait…
Peter…” Duke squints at him. “You don’t-”
“If you’re about to ask me if spider silk comes out of my ass, I think I’ll have to punt you across the room.”
“Fair enough.”
Damian feels that itch of wanting to know
more,
the same that settles on his skin when he’s found a particular complex puzzle. He tunes the others out, trying to place why this
Natasha
and the spider-sense intrigues him so much.
When Damian had first seen that video of Spider-Man that Cassandra sent to them, he had wanted to know everything about him. He saw the techniques, yes, but he also saw how fast they were executed. Peter has an ability to change direction- both literally and physically- in the blink of an eye. He’s fast on his feet and to change his plans. He’d attribute this to Peter having contingencies like Father, but by his own admission, Peter ‘fucks around and finds out.’
But despite the questionable method, he makes it work. It’s that training that he received that works so well with Peter’s spider-sense and his other natural abilities. Peter has the strength to hold up a building, but he favors speed, agility, and preciseness more than that. And Damian wants to know how it
works.
He wants to see just what this other assassin would teach their student, wants to see what is similar and what is different, wants to see exactly what Peter does with it.
Because Damian likes a challenge, he asks:
“Peter, do you want to spar?”
Whatever the losers were talking about comes to a halt mid sentence. Peter tilts his head, and for the first time in a couple days, he looks
excited.
“You want to? How long before you guys go on patrol?” He glances at Timothy, but he’s already standing up, so they’re going to do it no matter the answer.
Damian stands as well, though because he’s going to suit up soon, he’s already in his leggings and undershirt, ready to spar. Damian crosses over to the sparring floor while Peter hangs back to take off his hoodie. He continues to wear the long sleeve shirt and his web shooters- Damian has noticed that Peter doesn’t ever roll up his sleeves or uncovers his hands on his own decision in front of others.
“Uh, about thirty minutes.” Timothy answers. Of course, his elder brother is just as curious about Spider-Man as Damian is, so he has no objections either. “Dami, you need a cotton wrap.”
“Tt, as if I wouldn’t have them on me.” Damian pulls out the gloves from his legging pocket.
Peter hurries over to stand in the center of the room with Damian. The sparring floor is as wide as a basketball court, with markings for different purposes. There’s a line that splits it in half. Peter chooses to put his back to the weightlifting room, and Damian faces that direction. In the center of the court where they are standing, there is a circle that they use for wrestling and boxing matches, to mark where they can’t leave the ring. Peter, observant despite being hard headed, looks at these lines as Damian puts his gloves on.
“Are we keeping inside the ring?”
“Depends,” Damian puts his hand son his hips. “When you usually spar, what are your rules?”
Peter hesitates, and then gives Damian a goofy, sheepish grin. “Don’t be stupid?”
“Should have figured.” Damian sighs. “What do you usually do when you spar with this Natasha?”
“How about you guys just stick to regular sparring for now?” Timothy offers from the sidelines. “You’re gonna want the time to cool down before we go out, so stick to whoever gets pinned or knocked down first.”
Damian looks to Peter to see if that’s good for him, and the other teen shrugs with acceptance. Damian levels into a starting position- leaning on the balls of his feet, arms on either side of him so he can be prepared if Peter will strike first or if he’ll have to do it. Peter only remembers to do this when Damian does it, but his posture is much more laid-back, more defensive than offensive. So it’ll be Damian who strikes first.
And that he does.
He knows that Peter can handle this- he held up a building, after all- so Damian doesn’t hold back. He moves forward fast as a viper to swing at Peter’s face, putting actual effort into the swing that he’d avoid with the others. Peter sidesteps the move faster than Damian can blink, twists around to get behind Damian, and sticks his foot out to trip him.
Damian’s ankle catches on Peter’s. To stop himself so he doesn’t hit the ground, he places his palm flat on the floor and cartwheels back up to his feet, just at the edge of the ring. Peter has an easy going grin on his lips, as if he expected that much.
That was
remarkably
fast.
It’s not that Damian underestimated Peter. After seeing the other teen keep Batman on his toes, always out of reach, and then managing to steal the cape off of his back, Damian would be stupid to think that he’d be an easy fight. But it’s one thing to watch it happen to someone else, it’s another to see it up close.
He narrows his eyes, choosing to dig his focus in more. He should think about it the way he’d spar with one of the speedsters- thinking ahead, anticipating their moves so Damian is not having to play catch up the entire time.
This time, Damian goes to a lower punch towards his stomach. Peter ducks around his arm, but Damian swings back his elbow towards Peter’s head. His misses yet again, however, because Peter has bent back to avoid it. Damian drops low and sweeps his feet under Peter’s legs as he’s fallen back.
Peter jumps up to avoid it, flipping back twice and dropping into a crouch on the ground, just at the edge of the ring. It’s a move that Richard would pull on them, thinking himself funny. And of course, Peter’s grin matches it.
The other boy goes first this time. He kicks off to go at Damian head on. Damian side steps to avoid the hit to his stomach, but Peter surprises Damian by suddenly turning mid way and grabbing the back of Damian’s shirt. He swings Damian around the ring and releases him once he gets the momentum, trying to get Damian out of the ring. Oh, like
hell
he’s about to let that happen!
Damian toes the edge of the line. He has to spin on one foot and use his other to rebalance himself. He scowls when Peter laughs, already hearing how much distance he put between them before he even turns fully back around.
“What’s that face for?” Peter smirks.
“Quit grinning, it makes you look stupid.” Damian retorts, but he can’t help his own small grin. It’s just satisfying when someone is
competent
in a fight. “You haven’t beaten me yet.”
Damian pushes off his foot to go at Peter. He decides for a right hook- Peter dodges. While behind Damian, Peter spins around to kick at Damian’s side. “What, I’m not allowed to have fun?”
He avoids the kick, turning to swing his own leg up to kick Peter’s head. Peter rolls forward to avoid it and pops back up just as fast.
It continues like that, a dance between them where neither of them manage to land an actual hit. Though he’s sure that Peter
could,
if he was actually serious about this and it wasn’t just a spar. They’re both more focused on getting the other to step out of the ring in order to claim a victory. It becomes like a dance, almost, one that they lose time to. Peter will quip something off hand when the silence gets too much, and Damian will retort every now and then.
It’s not until Richard calls out to them that they snap out of it.
“Five minutes to suit up, Dami!”
There!
Peter hesitates when Richard speaks, glancing back at the bleachers in surprise. Richard and Father are standing next to Tim, Duke, and Stephanie, watching the spar intently. Damian goes to kick Peter out of the ring while his focus is shot.
Except Peter’s hands reach out to grab Damian’s ankle, fast as a shot- far faster than he’s been the entire spar. It was more like a reflex than a conscious movement, and Peter’s eyes widen as if that’s exactly what it was. His focus back on their spar, Peter kicks out to trip Damian’s other foot right as Damian tries to get his ankle out of Peter’s grip. Damian loses his balance. The air whooshes around him, and Damian finds himself laying flat on his back.
When he sits up, he looks down to see that he’s out of the ring, and Peter stands over him, distracted by glancing at the weightlifting room and back to the bleachers.
He hadn’t noticed that everyone was there. It’s not like Damian had either, but Peter has a real problem with that, doesn’t he? Always needing to know where everyone is in a room, and getting tense when he doesn’t.
That
can’t
just be from that spider-sense of his. Damian knows that look isn’t just because it was Richard that had spoken. He’s the exact same way. Though nowadays, Damian finds the Manor a comfortable place, and he doesn’t itch when he isn’t aware of where everyone is, that had not been the case when he first arrived. The League had trained him to constantly be aware of his surroundings, even when he should be safe.
It was a lesson that Richard had talked to him about once. How it wasn’t just something that the League consciously trained into him, but also a trauma response. Damian used to be scared that someone was going to hurt him if he wasn’t aware.
Who did that to Peter?
“What the hell was that?” Damian brushes himself off. Tim and Duke are already bounding up the bleachers to go get suited up for patrol, and Stephanie is speaking to Bruce. Richard is glancing over at the pair on the sparring floor, but is trying not to say anything.
Peter snaps out of it, and reaches his hand out to Damian to help him up. Damian takes it, finding that Peter is shaking his head as if to clear away his thoughts. “What was what?”
“That grab at the end.” Damian says. Peter must have expected to talk about the
other
thing. But Damian finds that bringing it up when he could just make sure to help Peter feel safe the way Richard had done for him would be shameful. “You looked surprised that you did it.”
“Oh,” He laugh lightly, coming back to himself. “Well, I
was
surprised. It was a reflex.”
“A reflex.” Damian repeats.
“Yeah. Sometimes I can’t control it. Most times I can’t.” Peter holds out his hands, just looking at them. “It just happens when I’m in danger. I almost kicked the shit out of Bruce that one time, but I managed to stop it when I recognized there wasn’t a danger.
That
could have ended badly.”
“Your body just reacts like
that
without your conscious thought?”
“Yeah, it does. Dodging bullets before they fire, catching things that are thrown at me, stuff like that. My spider-sense is always aware of my surroundings.” Peter explains to him. It sounds true, even if it is insane. Damian wonders just how far that can go…
“Dami,” Richard calls out again, much closer this time.
Peter tenses and looks over his shoulder at him. Richard smiles warmly, though he’s still hesitant around Peter, like one would be for a spooked deer, and there’s a twinge of sadness to it that doesn’t settle well with Damian.
“That was a good spar, you two.” Richard tries, and Peter nods without a word, looking away from him and messing with the velcro of the gloves on his hands as if he ever actually takes the gloves off. Richard winces. “Um, Dami, we really gotta suit up. B might take off with Tim if you’re late.”
“I am
not
letting that fool take my patrol route.”
-
NOV 5th
“Fourteen!”
“Yeah, well, I have fifteen, so suck on that, Bird.”
“No you do not!”
“Yes I so do! You’re just mad ‘cause I’m in the lead!”
Tim thinks that maybe he should have considered Jason’s offer to help chaperone the kids after all. He hadn’t anticipated just how much this game would tire him out…
Maybe
he’s
getting old too, like Dick?
It’s Peter’s first night out back on patrol, and he hadn’t accounted for how much energy Peter would have, and how apparently, Damian
feeds
off of that energy now. Like some kind of energy vampire. No, actually- they encourage
each other,
in a never ending cycle of swapping a singular braincell between the pair. It might have only gotten worse after the spar, because now every time they get the chance, they’re doing something like this, and they’re starting to build games with unspoken rules to them.
Like, when Tim and Duke got home from school, they had caught up with Peter and asked how he was doing while in the kitchen, just shooting the breeze as they all avoid the elephant in the circus tent. Damian got home after them, stalking into the kitchen with a plan. Without even a greeting, he had
thrown at knife
at Peter’s head, which the other caught with far too much ease. Peter wasn’t surprised, either- according to him, Damian had done it sporadically throughout the morning while the demon brat was getting ready for school.
After that, they had sparred again downstairs, and ran through a few simulations. Tim would check on them every now and then to find that they had developed some sort of telepathy, because while they weren’t
quiet
(Peter makes sure of this, because he always has something funny to say), they were getting through the simulations without a word to each other about what to do. They just
did
it, working together like they’d been doing it all their lives.
It’s actually a little terrifying how well they picked up on that. Bruce had watched them for a few minutes during the last spar, and he had gravely told Tim,
“That’s a dangerous pair.”
Terrifying, but impressive.
Alfred hadn’t been too happy to hear that they let Damian and Peter spar, something about how Peter was on rest, but the kid looks perfectly fine to Tim. Either way, Alfred had lifted the grounding tonight. And no one commented on Alfred’s amusement when Peter cheered about that, then sped off to get ready with Damian.
Tonight is a haze of games and speed running patrol, but the night before had been largely uneventful.
Tim, Damian, and Bruce were investigating Ohnn’s last known steps in Gotham, which was honestly
too long
ago for it to make them feel easy about his absence. Adding Peter’s knowledge of Ohnn’s movements along with what they had been tracking, Ohnn did have a sort of schedule: three days, three nights, for the most part. But it’s been long enough since the last time that Ohnn appeared for that schedule to be reliable anymore. That, or he’s been able to cover his tracks now, and that wouldn’t be good either.
When looking through the night that he disappeared, they had discovered that Ohnn had visited The Iceberg Lounge.
What Ohnn and his mystery partner could want with Cobblepott is to be determined, but it’s more likely that he went to the Lounge for another reason. Which would be much more welcomed, because Penguin has a nasty habit of covering his tracks too well. Tim isn’t looking forward to sneaking through their records.
Tim had put up listening devices in some new places two months prior (Cobblepott’s hench-goons had found the ones that were previously in there before, but Tim thinks he got creative enough that these should last longer), so they had listened in on a good-old-stakeout for a while. The only part of the entire evening that was worth noting was that
apparently
some fear gas containers went missing from several shipments that someone bought, and one mafia family is blaming a rival for it.
Bruce had to call Jason about it, since the two particular mafias had their hands dipped in around Crime Alley, and one of the families was currently on Hood’s List. This is a comprehensive list of people that Do Not Want To Fuck With Hood.
Fear Gas
being apart of their shipments and them having a record of helping Crane in the past to terrorize Crime Alley kids means that Jason is going to be putting the fear of god into some of them tonight.
Since Jason was out doing his thing, and Dick and Cass were out on patrol together without Tim (Cass had kissed Tim’s forehead and told him that no, it was just going to be her and Dick tonight, but maybe next time), Tim had thought that he’d be with Bruce, Peter, and Damian.
But Bruce had decided at the last second to go with Jason instead, and tasked Tim to watch over Damian and Peter.
Of course, Tim had to say yes. He didn’t have to say anything for Tim to know that Bruce was likely going to look at the fear gas lead, because Crane being out and them not knowing about it would stir trouble none of them want. Jason had looked over at Peter and Damian pushing each other and loudly shouting about something stupid, looked at Tim, and given a rare:
“Do you want help with that, Baby Bird?”
Jason offering to give up a lead in Crime Alley, when
Bruce
was going?
Tim should have taken him up on that, seriously. It was clearly a warning. (More accurately, Jason probably didn’t want to spend that time with Bruce alone, and him not wanting to let Peter out of his sight).
But he had gotten it into his head that they’d just be placing the Jumping Radars that Peter had built in his free time, and there was no need to bring four people to do that. Besides, it’d keep the teenagers busy! No problem, Tim could handle it. He has the experience of wrangling Bart, Kon, and Cassie.
(Ignore that Tim also had to be wrangled sometimes. It’s not relevant at all.)
Except now they started a game of putting up their Jumping Radars faster than the other can, and even Tim, expert watcher, has a difficult time trying to keep an eye on them. Tim has decided that it’s better for him to hang back, look at the GPS, and then go double check where they put them and that they’re properly put up, rather than try to keep up with the two of them. If he tried, he’d get an aneurysm or something.
And he sounds like he’s complaining, but it
is
actually kind of fun.
Being able to see Dami act like a kid and not a miniature adult is always interesting and heartwarming, and seeing Peter have the time of his life on patrol with them feels great too. Peter being cooped up in the mansion doesn’t fit the kid at all, and no doubt he’s been itching to get back on the streets.
“There’s only two left for Spidey, and three left for Robin. Then that’s it for this district.” He informs the pair. “I’ll buy the winner an extra scoop of ice cream at the end of the night.”
“Might as well give up now, Bird.”
Peter taunts. Tim hears him both on the comms and above him, so he looks up just in time to see Spider-Man swing overhead. Damian is somewhere a few blocks over.
“You’re gonna eat your words, and I’m gonna be eating victory.”
Peter lands next to Tim on the roof, showing Tim his empty hands, clear of any of the small, bug-like devices. With Spider-Man’s mask still being repaired and Peter in the domino
,
the smirk on his face is plain to see as he tells Damian, “Well, you better hurry, then. I’m getting hungry.”
(He looks so much like Robin, he looks so much like Robin, he looks so much like-)
Tim laughs. Peter had lied about having only fifteen JR’s left, so Damian would still think they were competing and rush around. Looks like Peter is the winner this round, but that trick might not work a second time tonight. Tim turns his comms off and Peter follows suit, coming to sit down next to Tim on the ledge.
“Having fun, Spidey?” Tim asks, though a part of him is still distracted.
With that domino on, looking at Peter makes Tim feel like he’s nine years old again and running around Gotham with his camera, desperate to get a picture of his favorite hero. The only difference is that Tim never got a chance to sit next to Dick like this when Dick was still Robin. He’d only ever had the chance to see him from afar through the camera lens. Always a spectator, never sitting at his side.
Even now, when Tim actually
can
sit next to Dick, he’s still a spectator. Still the three year old that watched the Flying Graysons soar through the air in that circus tent. Tim has never stopped watching, and he doesn’t think he ever will.
Crazy how things come full circle. It was that watching that made it so easy for Tim to see Dick, to see Robin, through Peter and Spider-Man.
He shouldn’t have kept it to himself, the dimension thing. He knows that wasn’t his best course of action, but Tim hadn’t just kept it to himself because Damian had annoyed him. (Though, that was still a big reason). Tim had actually been looking for evidence that he could be right, so that no one could call him crazy.
It was that reason that he hadn’t said anything.
“I didn’t want to be called crazy.”
is actually a sore spot in the house, even a year later. As great as they all are getting along, and as much progress as they made…
(Like, Bruce actually wanting to…
go places
with him? Not just working, not just at the Manor, but doing something, just the two of them? The last time they had done that, it was before Jason attacked Tim at Titan’s Tower. Tim thought it would be the
last time.
And Dick, his big brother, acknowledging that the communication between them had crumbled a long, long time ago, and wanting to fix it? Again- before the Titan’s Tower, Tim and Dick had been very close. If Bruce wasn’t Tim’s father, he had at least been assured that Dick was his big brother, was his family. That hadn’t
changed
after the Tower, but it had felt… different. Tim is a liar, at heart, and a coward. Always a spectator.)
…With as much progress as they made, some part of Tim still feels like the 17 year old that dropped out of high school and left everything and everyone behind to go looking for Bruce, knowing that he couldn’t call for help or quit, because everyone thought he was
crazy
for thinking Bruce was alive. Especially Dick.
So he… he just wanted proof. Before telling anyone. But if he had said that, it would have come with another heart-to-heart that Dick didn’t have the energy for and Tim really didn’t want from anyone else.
“It’s
way
more fun to do patrol with other people!” Peter swings his feet as he talks. “I don’t really have anyone to do that with! All my mentors are busy doing their own stuff, for the most part, so it’s just me. Unless Black Cat wants to join in. Sometimes she doesn’t wanna steal and she just wants someone to hang out with. Which I get, cause sometimes I just wanted someone to hang out with too.”
“Who’s Black Cat?”
“A thief that I’ve been trying to catch.” Peter shrugs as if that didn’t make Tim’s brain short circuit.
“What?”
“She’s
really
stealthy, but I’m sneakier than her so that’s not what makes her hard to catch. She has a luck manipulation power,
that’s
what makes her super hard to catch, ‘cause my luck is very, very,
very
bad. She didn’t even need to tell me for me to know that. She’s my age, started stealing, like, last year? Maybe a little longer. Or…
professionally
stealing. She’s a kleptomaniac, she’s probably been stealing since she was a toddler.”
“Holy shit,” Tim breathes out a hysteric laugh.
His mind flashes with the amount of times he had to find anything to do so he could avoid Catwoman and Batman being all lovey dovey and gross on the Gotham rooftops. And all the times he’s heard Dick and Jason complain about the Will-They-Won’t-They phase that they had when the two of them were Robin. And a part of Tim’s mind can not compute that Peter has
his own version of Catwoman?
“What?” Peter doesn’t get it.
“Is…” Tim does not know how to word this. How do you ask if your nephew has a crush on a girl? That’s
awful.
Tim is terrible at emotional conversations, and romance, specifically. When he has a crush, he would rather ball it up inside of himself and lock it away in a deep, deep void that no one can look at. “Is… Black Cat… a
lady
friend?”
Peter stares at him, probably blinking behind the mask. “Her pronouns are she/they?”
“I meant- Like- Ugh. Do you have a crush on her?”
Immediately Peter gags, horrified enough to recoil away from Tim.
“Eww!
No! I think we both would rather
die! That’s
what you were asking? What is wrong with you?”
“Sorry, sorry!” Tim barks out a laugh, and Peter huffs with frustration. “It’s just- Batman has a cat burglar named Catwoman, and they’re actually a couple. Ish. It’s complicated. Just wanted to see how similar you two might be.”
“Don’t put your heteronormative shit on me. Guys and girls can be just friends. And
don’t
compare me to Batman. My hyphenated name makes me ten times cooler and more sophisticated, thank you very much.”
“You’re right, you’re right.” Tim concedes, hands up in surrender. It appeases the little brat well enough. “I just had to ask, for the reality correlation of it all. So Black Cat, she’s your friend, but also a rival?”
“Yeah, pretty much. I just find it hard to want to stop her, sometimes, ‘cause I hate the people she steals from. Like art smugglers, and stuff like that. She also likes stealing from plain-old-rich folks and even though I stop her, I sort of think they wouldn’t
freak out
over a vase getting stolen. They have plenty left to share. Though she did get me caught up in a scheme once and I was wanted for art theft for a couple months before it got cleared up. Was annoying at the time but now it’s kinda funny.”
“You’ve been wanted for art theft?” Tim asks, and Peter shrugs. “Huh. Me too.”
“Really?” Peter leans forward. “What’d you steal?”
“There was a… misunderstanding, in a foreign country, about a year ago.” Is all Tim has to say about that, at the moment.
“Oh, well, you know how misunderstandings go.” Peter sighs dramatically.
“What about other heroes your age?” Tim can’t help but think about the other hero possibilities. “What are they like?”
“What do you mean? It’s just me.”
Tim pauses to mull that over. “It’s… just you?”
“There are no other heroes my age. At least, not yet.” Peter says it like it’s fine, but his tiny frown shows that it does sort of bother him. “Black Cat is the only other powered person I’ve met that’s my age. I guess that’s another reason why I don’t want to stop her and give her up to the cops.”
Tim thinks about the period of his life where it was just him and Batman. Dick had taken the effort to come around, but for the most part, Tim was the only kid around at that time. Dick was an adult, after all, by that point, and Bruce was too. Besides that, Bruce and Dick couldn’t be in the same room very long without screaming at each other. It’s another reason why Tim never wanted to stay over at the Manor.
(There were a lot of reasons for that.)
Meeting the Young Justice had felt liberating. Cassie, Bart, Kon… They changed his life for the better. He was around Peter’s age when he met them, too. He can’t imagine hitting puberty
and
having no friends who were heroes to talk to about it.
“That must get pretty lonely.” Tim comments.
“Sometimes. But Ned makes it better.”
“Who’s Ned?” Hold on, Tim thought that he just said…
“He’s my
best
friend! He’s not a hero or a vigilante, but he’d make a
great
one, in my opinion. I met him at school, and we just clicked right away. He’s one of the coolest people I know, so I didn’t think he’d be my friend, but he is! I’d never really had a friend before Ned, so it’s really great to have him. He knows all about Spider-Man, and he’s kind of my guy-in-the-chair, when he can get away with it. His Lola is pretty strict and I wouldn’t want him to get in trouble staying up too late. But we break the rules a lot so he can talk to me while I’m patrolling.”
Peter could
not
sound more fond right now, like he’s all warm and gooey on the inside. He’s got the same dopey grin that Dick gets when he talks about Wally.
“Ssssssoooo….” Tim is not equipped to handle that, so he’s not gonna. “This is your first time patrolling with more than Black Cat?”
“Pretty much! Tony does it sometimes, but he prefers being in his lab.”
“I remember my first time patrolling with B and Nightwing.” Tim tells him, glancing at the GPS.
Looks like Damian is talking to Batman, and that’s why he’s taking so long. Are Bruce and Jason done in Crime Alley?
“What was it like?”
“It was
exhilarating.
I’d trained for so long before going out, y’know? And even before then…” Tim remembers the feeling of
flying
for the first time and how all the hard work paid off. “Wing always made it a point to go get food or to play games while we were out. He’s a
great
teacher too, I learned so much from him. I couldn’t get over how I was learning from the
original
Robin. It was like a dream come true.”
Peter hesitates, shifting where he sits like he couldn’t tell if he wanted to run or stay. Tim briefly worries that he fucked up by mentioning Dick, but Peter asks, “What…
was
he like? When- When he was Robin?”
Huh. That’s certainly not what he expected Peter to ask… But that’s kind of sweet, isn’t it? Actually, more than sweet. He’s so nervous, like he thinks Tim is gonna shut him down, but hopeful that he won’t.
Wanting to know about Dick is progress, isn’t it? Peter told them he was so young when his parents died that he didn’t remember them, to the point where it was hard to recall their faces. That didn’t just mean that they didn’t get to know Peter, but that he never got to know them. He likely has
only
ever heard about this alternate version of Dick from other people that got to know him. And now he’s come face to face with a version he might know
nothing
about, and he’s back to square one. His dad is a stranger again.
Well, it’s a good thing he asked Tim. He’s been watching Batman and Robin for a long, long time.
“He was abrasive.” Is Tim’s first words, which is probably a weird place to start. But Tim doesn’t want to tell Peter about Dick’s life story, that’s for the two of them to talk about. What Tim
can
do is talk about his perspective on him. “He just lost his parents when he became Robin. He was all jaded edges and fire, an anger that didn’t really ever go away. Grief does funny things to people. Like make them dress up at Bats and Birds.”
Peter’s laugh is breathy, like an afterthought.
“But the more comfortable he got with B, the more he opened up into… Some kind of light. Batman was the night, and Robin was the big, bright hope that Gotham needed. He grew into something you couldn’t look away from even if you tried. He was
all
stupid puns and quips, and he was also a hard headed kid, so people underestimated him. But he was able to keep up with Batman, and actual super powered people. He’s the kind of guy that people look to in a crisis to have an answer. He’s most reliable of us because when he loves someone, he loves them so deeply to the point of his soul belonging to them.”
And there he goes, from Robin to Nightwing without really thinking about it. Peter is thoughtfully quiet, his legs have stopped swinging.
“He’s much more patient than he used to be.” Tim adds, bumping his shoulder on Peter’s. That earns Tim the smallest of grins. “You know, actually, he’s come a
long
way. One time when he was Robin, I watched him get fed up with Condiment King and try to shove his condiment gun up the guy’s nose, only to fire mustard up his
own
nose. He had to sit out the rest of the fight cause he kept sneezing yellow.”
“No fucking way.” Peter scoffs. “There’s
no way
this
ridiculous
city has a villain named
Condiment King
and his shtick involves mustard.”
“Not
just
mustard. There’s also ketchup and mayo. Honey mustard, sometimes, or ranch, if he’s feeling fancy.”
“You’re lying to my face right now!” Peter swears, smacking Tim’s shoulder.
“I’m not! He’s a
real
guy! Just ask anyone else!”
“Fine, I’ll ask them right now!” Peter turns on his comms, Tim following suit just in time to hear Babs fussing about something Hood did. “Oracle, Double-R is trying to make me think there’s a
real
villain named Condiment King.”
“He’s lying to you.”
She replies with absolute zero hesitation. Tim almost stumbles with the betrayal.
“I knew it!”
“Wh- I’m
not!
When we get back to the Cave, I’ll show you!” Tim reels in the shock, because he really
wasn’t
making it up, and with the amount of times Babs had fought the man, he thought she at least wouldn’t put Tim on the chopping block like this.
“Yeah,
okay,
I believe you. Condiment King is about as real as Antman.”
Tim narrows his eyes at the little twerp. “…You said he was real when I asked you.”
“I dunno, Copyright,” Peter sticks his feet to the side of the building with a cat-like smirk.
“Is
he real?”
“Spidey-”
“Red, we need to hurry up and place the other Jumping Radars. Stop messing with Spider-Man.”
“But I’m
not!”
Tim protests as Peter jumps off the side of the building.
“He’s
messing with
me!”
-
NOV 6th
Dick is not getting enough sleep.
One would think that with him taking off of work, Dick would have
more
time to sleep. But trying to sleep comes with not being able to shut his brain or his heart off, and Dick can’t have any of that. So he finds himself yet again filling the should-be-sleeping hours with work.
It’s at least a good chance to get caught up with the case files he’d been procrastinating for the JL. Bruce had been subtly (not) hinting that he should get that done before someone else has to do it and Dick gets a big stink about it. He flicks through a few of them now while sitting at the Batcomputer, signing off on non-emergent missions and updating the files that had been cleared already. His eyelids feel about as heavy as his heart, but he can’t bring himself to close them.
Because every time he does, he sees how
haunted
Peter looked when he saw the poster.
Now
that
had been Dick’s stupidest move yet- not having the conversation before entering a room with his parents and their names on a big paper. Peter had clearly been aware of that much about them, and he’s not
stupid
, so of course he’d see it. But Dick had gotten caught up in his head about…
Well, that dinner.
When Bruce took him in, he
refused
to change his name. He hadn’t even let Bruce formally adopt him until he was an actual, legal adult. He had always been Bruce’s ward, and had always clung to his parents that he watched fall and leave him. Like if he was holding onto them now, the rest of them wouldn’t slip away too.
Having the ‘Grayson’ in his name meant a lot of things. It meant a connection back to Haley’s Circus, with all of his friends and family, that he had to leave behind. It meant that he was still there in some way, was still
their
kid even though they were all so, so far away from each other. Dick was in that big, quiet Manor, and the people he cared about and had known his entire life were on the other side of the country or the world. He would look at the poster on his wall with his parents on the paper, one of the
only
photos he ever had of them, and he’d pretend he was still sleeping in their RV, tangled up between his parents after a long day of practice or performing.
(Feeling safe. Loved. Home.)
He hadn’t ever imagined a world where he would have done it differently. But then again, he never imagined a world where he hadn’t had Bruce there to field his name out of the headlines, to keep him from getting harassed about his parents’ deaths every day. Sure, he imagined a world where his parents were alive. But in the ones that they weren’t (the reality), he couldn’t picture anyone but
Bruce
being there that day.
Dick had been the circus kid that Bruce ‘took pity on’ in the eyes of high society. He was the golden child to the citizens of Gotham. He was the ‘Boy Wonder’ to the hero community. But no matter what, Bruce made sure that
his
name wasn’t brought up in papers. Clark and Lois do the same for all of them now. They could say anything they wanted behind closed doors, but if they tried talking about it in the news, life wasn’t going to go well after that.
“Richard Parker” was Peter’s father, not Richard Grayson. This was a version of him that had an entirely different path to take when his parents died. Had their deaths even been murder? Or was it really just a freak accident? Had he been meant to lose his parents no matter what? Were these Parkers supposed to take him in if Bruce hadn’t?
It was all too much and not enough information at the same time. And because he freaked out, he made a mistake, and now he can’t stop seeing how hurt Peter had looked.
“I’m tired.”
Dick drags a hand down his face with a groan, leaning back in his chair and trying to get past the way his chest twists with pain. It’s like a hot iron is being pressed to his heart. Those two words had sounded so quiet but so desperate, and Dick hadn’t had it in him to make Peter sit through that conversation.
And that’s because it wasn’t a conversation they needed to have immediately. Dick could wait it out, could be patient for this. Peter needs his space, but it’s starting to feel more like Peter
wants
to ignore his existence and be done with that, with Dick, forever.
If that’s really what Peter wants to do, is Dick capable of pushing him on it? Of forcing his way into Peter’s attention? How serious is the moral dilemma of telling Peter that he wants to know him, wants him to stay in their world? Dick doesn’t have a problem keeping his kid from an alternate universe (not even a little bit), but would Peter think of Dick as a cheap copy to his real father? An imitation? Even if he didn’t, wouldn’t it be cruel to get closer to him, because Peter is going to have to go home, back to where his Dad is
dead?
Is Dick hurting Peter by being near him-?
“Is this a bad time?”
Dick startles up in his chair, twisting around to spot the kid himself.
Peter looks like he wasn’t getting enough sleep either. His hair his stuck up all around like he’d had a fight with his pillow, his long sleeve shirt twisted around his torso to prove that he lost that fight. His red-rimmed eyes are drooping, half caught in his sleep, and his brows are furrowed.
Had he been crying? No- not a question. Peter’s eyes and cheeks are rubbed raw, he had
definitely
been crying. It looks like he just jumped out of bed and came down here without caring about changing or washing his face. He’s holding three notebooks in his hand, one foot placed behind him like he’s ready to run.
“Hey, bud,” Dick didn’t do it on purpose, but his voice comes out gentle, and he hopes the way Peter is frowning doesn’t mean he thinks Dick is patronizing him. Desperate for damage control, he gestures to the computer halfheartedly. “No, not a bad time. I couldn’t sleep so I figured I’d work on some League stuff, but I hate paperwork.”
Peter’s grip on the notebooks tightens a little bit, but he doesn’t run away, like every other time that they’ve been in the same room for the past few days.
“You do a lot of paperwork for someone who hates it.” He comments.
“All part of the job.” Dick tries for a grin.
Peter raises a brow, and like a miracle, he must decide that Dick’s existence isn’t a reason to run away. He pulls out one of the other chairs and sits down next to Dick, though a little far apart, and sets his notebooks down. “I’ve never had to do paperwork. I don’t think Tony has, either.”
“Well, Tony can apparently afford other people to do his paperwork for him.” Dick only thinks twice on that comment after it’s out of his mouth- Peter has a history of defense on Tony’s part that doesn’t work well with Dick in the conversation- but Peter grins. An actual,
real
grin that’s aimed in his direction.
Small wins!
“I meant for hero stuff. Pepper gets him on the Stark Industries stuff.”
“Pepper is your foster mom, right?”
“Mm… technically.” Peter shrugs, opening his first notebook and pulling up one of Bruce’s files on one screen.
DIMENSIONAL TRAVEL.
“She and Tony aren’t legally married, but she lives with us and she’s pretty much my foster mom. She just doesn’t have any legal rights over me.”
“Does she have a sister named Salt or is that a nickname?”
Dick is trying to keep his eyes on his own work, because he’s not Bruce and he doesn’t hover over his kids’ shoulders just to see what they’re doing, but his eyes had already caught on to what was on the screen and he finds that he’s trying to read in his peripheral vision despite his better judgment.
It’s mostly just files compiled on all the known variants of dimensional travel and those who could go in between. Magic users, for the most part, but the reason it wasn’t a viable theory was because, well, shit goes astronomically wrong when dimensional travel is used. The Antimatter universe could cause explosions, looking at Hell could bring someone into irreparable madness… “Dimensional” travel had always been more about timelines or pocket dimensions, not a completely alternate universe, like where Peter is from. There may not
be
magic users in their world that could go between dimensions like that.
Or if there are, they are not on the heroes’ side. Or, it comes with a price- like Fate’s Helm.
Theoretically, Wally or Barry could do it, but they wouldn’t be able to bring Peter along with them.
Peter hasn’t read the computer yet, he just grins at Dick’s stupid joke. “It’s a nickname Tony gave her. She sprayed him with pepper spray when they first met.”
“Well, that’s not concerning at all.” Dick leans back again in his chair, trying to feign nonchalance, but feeling like he’s failing. One would think with the amount of times that Dick had gone undercover, he’d be good at that, but apparently fucking not.
He glances down at Peter’s notebook paper. There’s not a blank spot on the page. His scribbled handwriting has the entire thing covered in even the small margins and around the punch hole with sequences that are familiar because Bruce and Tim had been working through the same equations on the Batcomputer. These are the ones that that Loki character had been working on with Peter.
The ones that are to help Peter get home.
There are
three
notebooks in front of him, two already full from front to back.
Something twists in Dick’s chest again, and he has to scold himself mentally.
Obviously
Peter has been working on this. He wants to get back home. He deserves to go home.
“Have you tried running the sequences?” He asks, because no ugly part of Dick is going to rear it’s head and keep Peter from getting back to his family. (His family, not Dick’s, because Dick might be his father but Peter doesn’t want-) Cut that thought off.
Peter could run through the sequences in the simulator to see what works, basing his work off of Ohnn’s. He’s the only one who’s gotten close enough to that bastard to see the tech up close, and he sort of has an idea on how it works, but not really. From what Peter’s mentioned to them, before meeting Ohnn, dimensional travel through science and not magic was still theoretical. People are still using particle accelerators to try, not small devices put on their wrist.
“Sort of.” Peter shrugs, scrolling through the file. “But I’m kind of putting it off. I was hoping to try literally anything other than that.”
“How come?” Isn’t the way he came the easiest way to go? Rather than searching for ways back through other means, other people, who might take longer to get him home, wouldn’t it make more sense to take the same way back that he got through? It’s already connected to Peter’s world.
Peter holds one of his arms almost like he’s holding himself, eyes not leaving the computer. Like he can tell what Dick is thinking, he says, “The other way hurts.”
His breath catches in his throat. Peter brings his legs up to get even smaller in the chair, still scrolling through the file on the computer.
He had known perfectly well that Peter had shown up injured, that day at the library. Ohnn had tried to kill him, had beaten his face and strangled him. Peter itches at his neck as if recalling this as well, and Dick looks again at Peter’s red, puffy eyes, the dark circles under them. He hadn’t considered that the method that Ohnn was using would hurt-
But hadn’t Peter hinted at it?
‘Ohnn’s method isn’t pretty either.’
He has to stuff down the roaring, almost murderous anger that rises up. He’ll have to let that sit and stew in a deep, dark part of his soul, and save it for when he meets Ohnn face to face for the first (and
last,
because like hell he’ll let him get away) time. Instead, he takes a silent, deep breath, contemplating what to say next.
“Are you okay?”
He hadn’t known what else to ask. He could press about what it was like, he could push to know more about what happened, to know more about Ohnn. But Peter had brought down those notebooks after crying, and it had to be for the reason that it was on his mind. The most important question to ask is nothing less of how Peter is doing.
Peter looks at him, searching his face for who knows what. Try as he might, Dick can’t seem to read the kid’s mind. All he has is a vulnerable question in Peter’s gaze that never reaches his lips.
He turns back to the computer. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just a nightmare.”
He wants to reach over and brush Peter’s hair back, try to comfort him the way his parents- or Bruce, his father, after all these years- used to comfort him. Tell him something to reassure him that it’s all going to be okay, to be at his side as someone to rely on. But he recalls Peter finding excuses to leave the room he’s in, and he sees the distance between them now, and he has to force himself back.
Small steps, one at a time. Dick can’t push farther than this, he might really come to regret it.
“I turned into dust.” Peter says quietly, voice wobbly and his eyes wet, but he blinks it back, refusing to cry. “Tony tried grabbed my hand, but it wasn’t there anymore. And it hurt a lot. I don’t wanna do it again if I can help it.”
Dust.
Peter hadn’t said anything about how traveling by Ohnn’s method must be like, before now, except for that one off comment. They know the details of the teleportational jumps, but…
dust?
If that’s the case, then this method is likely stripping their bodies apart by the molecule, pulling them out of existence that way.
He pictures Peter crumbling into ash in front of him, and it feels like he can’t
breathe.
This time, he reaches out to Peter despite the distance. As if to make sure he’s still there, still all together in one piece, and that he isn’t going to disappear, lost and in a pain that Dick can’t prevent.
He doesn’t pull him into a hug- the kid tenses like he’s scared of that. But he does place his hand on the back of Peter’s neck, scooting his chair closer. Peter leans into his touch the smallest bit as if holding himself back. He doesn’t look away from his work, but he’s not actually reading anything on the notebooks or the screen either. When Dick runs his fingers through Peter’s hair, the tension releases from his shoulders, and they settle into a quiet moment, just the two of them.
He’s in one piece. He’s not in any pain anymore. At least,
physical
pain. There’s a lot to say about how much of a mental scar it left on Peter, if he’s having nightmares about it. For
now
, Peter is okay, and he’s not about to be gone, leaving nothing but ash behind. But it terrifies Dick to think there’s going to be a moment in the future where he
won’t
be okay. That Dick can’t take away the unfairness in the world, can’t save Peter from fate, from life and death.
Dick has seen horrors beyond the imagination. He sees the curse that has been placed on Gotham every time he goes out into the streets. He’s seen people lose themselves and lose others, he’s seen people lose their humanity, either willingly or while dragged kicking and screaming. He’s witnessed the rise and fall of people desperate for love, for recognition, for sanity. He’s seen people struggle with what it means to live and what it means to die. Inside of him will always be the kid that watched his parents’ skulls crack open on the ground, and realize that he will never seen them in whole again.
The world has never terrified Dick more than in this moment.
After a few minutes where they say nothing, Peter’s eyes droop a little more as if he’s fighting to stay awake. Dick blinks back hot tears from his own eyes, feeling much more awake than he had before Peter arrived. Peter turns to say something, but he stops himself before he can.
That’s when he jumps to his feet, something unreadable about his expression. No- It’s almost like he’s
angry.
Peter backs away from Dick and he has to let his hand fall.
“Night.” Peter is all Peter manages, leaving the room like someone lit a fire at his heels. The door shuts behind him and Dick feels like the room is ten times bigger than it was a few minutes ago.
“Night, Peter.” He tries, but he doesn’t know if Peter can hear him behind the door or not.
He doesn’t know what he did. Peter hadn’t indicated that he wasn’t wanting comfort, but when he looked at Dick’s face, that’s when he took off. Dick puts his head in his hands, trying to run back through what just happened. Should he have done that? He didn’t think it’d make Peter so frustrated, but… He pushed too soon.
Dick drops his hands, gaze falling back to the computer and the notebooks. He can’t help but feel this bottomless pit of disappointment and frustration with himself. How come when it matters the most, Dick fails to reach the people he cares about? He got angry with Bruce and left without talking about what really upset him, his relationship with Bruce and Jason suffered for it. He thought he was doing well with Tim but he had kept
missing
things. And even with Damian, Dick was terrified that he’d miss something or he’d push him away without meaning to, and it’s like a small miracle that nothing has happened yet.
He doesn’t know what to
do
this time. He doesn’t know what step to take to meet Peter halfway.
Dust.
It hurt a lot.
Just a nightmare.
A nightmare about the pain of getting there, like some awful metaphor for how Peter is still in pain, just not a physical one. Peter dreaming about that at the same time they’re talking about getting him home doesn’t feel like a coincidence.
The JL cases on his own screen suddenly feel like they’re in the way. He closes them out and instead drags what Peter was looking at onto his screen, grabbing a pen. He opens the last, unused notebook and gets to work, using Peter’s other two notebooks as a reference.
Peter wants to go home, so Dick’s feelings on that don’t matter. He’ll help figure out a way to get him there that won’t hurt him.
-
NOV 7th
The air is sticky with the scent of incoming rain.
They had checked the forecast before they headed out tonight, and the weatherman had reported
“Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. You never know.”
Peter would pay real money to be able to pick that guy’s brain, because he’d never seen someone so dead inside, like his life’s work meant nothing in the end.
But that’s just how it goes, in Gotham. Jason had said that yeah, that means it’s going to rain tonight, and no, they’re still going out. Unless it gets really bad, and in which case, they’ll have to head back to the Manor and try this again tomorrow.
Peter doesn’t know about that, though. As it starts to sprinkle overhead, the vibrant neon lights of the Crime Alley district makes it look like a watercolor page. The red light from the restaurant next door is his favorite, because through the windows of this apartment building, the rain drops have shadows that really up the atmosphere. It makes them look ten times spookier when one crook turns on his light to see Red Hood and Spider-Man in their living room.
It’s not much of a living room, though. When the other realizes what they’re looking at, he screeches and grabs a lamp to throw at them, and it’s one of the only things in the empty room. It’s a shitty place to lie low and keep supplies, so they weren’t focused on decorating it.
Peter watches the lamp make it, like, two feet before clattering to the ground.
It’s a pitiful excuse for a distraction and a getaway. The second crook snatches his gun out of his belt with a curse, but before he can even think about pulling the trigger, Peter has his hand webbed to the wall and the gun is dropped to the (sadly, a little sticky) floor.
Jason was leaning against the wall right next to them, so Lamp-Thrower gets even less distance away than the lamp got before Jason has him by his collar and is throwing him on the ground.
“Sorry to drop by unannounced.” Peter steps on his arm to keep him from getting up, and kicks a shard of the broken lamp away from the guy’s face. “But this is kind of important. We’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
“Fuck you!” The criminal tries to get up, only to find that Peter is much stronger than he looks. His arm doesn’t budge at all. “What the hell? You some kind of freak?”
“I don’t think drug dealers get to call other people names.”
“What the hell do you two want?” He snarls up at Red Hood. Honestly, a little impressive that he has that in him, considering he’s pale and sweaty, eyes wide like he expects Red Hood to pounce any second and gut him.
“We got somethin’ to talk about.” Jason’s voice is low, covered by the voice modulator in his helmet. He crouches in front of the crook, elbows on his knees. The posture is a mock relax, and it’s all in an effort for the crook to see Hood’s guns within his reaching distance. “You tell us what we need to hear, and maybe we’ll be nice enough to continue on our way.”
Peter thinks it’s cool how fast he can switch like that. Just a few minutes ago, Jason was scolding him about his favorite pizza toppings. Right now, he actually looks like the crime lord that would make a guy want to go into witness protection.
The man swallows down his nerves, but he still is scared shitless. The other man that’s webbed to the wall is trying to pull his hand out of it, but is realizing that it’s a futile effort, and has pushed himself as far out of Hood’s sight as he can get.
“…Fine. I’m not stupid. What do wanna know?”
There’s a lot that they want to know, actually. But there’s only so much that this guy will be able to tell them.
Peter is getting to tag along on Jason’s Fear Gas case, and it’s a far cry from what Peter is
used
to doing. He’s not really a detective, like the Bats are, though he’s starting to think maybe he should be. He’s done his fair share of going around asking questions, but that was mostly as Parker, and he usually he gets dragged into the mess, rather than him having to find it.
This is
fun.
It’s different from patrol and different from getting pulled into shit, and to top it all off, he gets to hang out with Jason!
So far what they’ve gathered, before now, is that Fear Gas shipments are going missing. “Fear Gas” or “Fear Toxin” is a chemical substance that a guy named Jonathan Crane, or Scarecrow, made in order to induce an involuntary fear response in people. It can give people auditory and visual hallucinations, paranoia, anger. It’s real nasty shit that’s meant to drive people insane, and it needs an antidote in order to escape that fate. When Batman, Robin, and Red Robin were staking out the Iceberg Lounge while looking for Ohnn, they overheard that shipments of Fear Gas are going missing, and they passed it off to Jason.
That’s for a few reasons, but mostly it’s because the people involved are set up in Crime Alley, which is Hood’s territory.
It’s not just one or two shipments that were taken, there’s been five shipments of six crates. They get sent out using Crane’s name, but he’s still in Arkham (thank god, because that guy sounds awful), so they were able to rule him out. It’s not uncommon for others to use Fear Gas or knockoffs for their own shit. A lot of scumbags use the toxin with a paralyzing agent as a means to kidnap people, especially around Crime Alley.
There are two groups involved: the Dubelz family and the Khadym Mob. Both of which have had problems in Crime Alley in the past, and
should
be listening to Hood like they promised they would.
Safe to say that Jason is not happy about this development.
Hood and Batman went looking through the Dubelz family’s recent movements the night before last, when Peter was beating Damian at placing the Jumping Radars around Gotham. (He won, Damian is a liar.) The Dubelz have been starting shit with the Khadym Mob by going around in their territory to sell drugs. The Khadyms are drug smugglers, and Fear Toxin is often among their products to sell off to villains looking to concoct their latest scheme, and they were
not
pleased to hear that the Dubelz were starting shit, even
before
they started losing shipments.
The Khadyms were the ones who started the fight at the Lounge. They accused the Dubelz family of stealing the shipments and trying to sell their product- in their eyes, the Dubelz were leading up to this the whole time. Problem is, the Khadyms have no evidence that the Dubelz family is involved in the theft, just that they’re overstepping territories. And that’s because the products never make it to the warehouse.
They’re always stolen on the water, and an empty boat will arrive. No Fear Gas, no crew. No bodies have turned up either. From what Peter can figure, that’s because whoever is doing it is throwing their bodies overboard into the Gotham bay.
The Gotham bay is just as cursed as Gotham, and maybe ten times more nasty. Those bodies are probably dissolved by now.
What they want to know is Who, What, Where, When, and Why.
Who would steal Fear Gas, if not the Dubelz? What do they want with the Fear Gas, and why aren’t they just buying it? But the guy that they’re questioning at the moment only has the answer to two: Where, and When.
There’s another shipment coming in tonight. The Khadyms played smart, though, by sending out five different possible locations for the shipment coming in, and spreading their people out over the city to make each location look real. There’s only a handful of people that know which one is the real deal.
One of them is under Peter’s foot.
“Where’s the shipment coming in, Badr?”
“Ask me anything but that.” Badr tries to scoot back, eyeing Jason’s guns. “I can tell you all about those working girls that went missing last week- did you know there’s a serial killer hanging out around there? I just found out yesterday.”
“Already looking at that. Answer my questions or we’re gonna stop playing nice.”
“Come on, man, we don’t want to get you in trouble.” Peter attempts. Jason shakes his head, but Peter thinks the Good Cop Bad Cop Good Cop routine works for a good reason.
“I know, I know,” Badr sighs like this wasn’t an interrogation. His friend is trying to sink to his knees on the ground to reach a lamp shard. “You’re doing your jobs. But I’m doing mine, too! Boss’ll kill me if I let this get out. We can’t afford to lose anymore product. The Dubelz schmucks aren’t gonna get one over on us again.”
“But we’re asking so nicely. We won’t tell anyone it was you.” Peter has half of his attention on that, and is more focused on what the other guy is trying.
“I think it’ll be fairly obvious that it was me.”
The other manages to grab the lamp shard. He reaches up like it’s a knife, and is absolutely shocked when instead of cutting through the webs, it just sticks to it. Interestingly, he tries to get another lamp sharp. It goes about the same way.
hello! friend! look it look it
Peter almost lets his foot up out of shock. The window to the apartment opens, Jason’s gun out of it’s holster in a split second and aimed right at Nightwing’s head as he’s halfway inside. Peter’s about to web the gun away but he freezes with panic.
Peter, I love you. It’s not your fault. His hands were too small-
Jason recognizes Nightwing when he puts his hands up in surrender, all smiles like he had no doubt Jason wouldn’t shoot him.
“Is this how we’re welcoming people to the party?” He closes the window and crosses the room. “Tried contacting you, but looks like you’re busy.”
“Yeah, we are busy, so why’re you bothering us?” Jason grunts, standing up as well.
“Oracle figured out the warehouse, so these guys are pointless now.”
“Aw man.” Peter lets go of the guy’s arm, but before he can get up, he webs him by his chest to lay on the floor. His first real interrogation and it gets cut short. Just his luck. Jason holsters his gun again. Badr sighs with relief, looking up at Spider-Man as the two adults talk.
“You’re new.”
“I am.” Peter commends his observation sills.
“Feels like Batman is running through sidekicks faster and faster nowadays.” Badr comments.
“I am
not
his sidekick.”
“Ok, whatever, sure looks like it. Fine, are you Hood’s sidekick?”
“I’m not a sidekick at all.”
Badr raises a disbelieving brow, giving him a once over. “Come off it, Spiderboy, they don’t let stupid teenagers as young as you run around without supervision.”
“That’s enough outta you.” Peter takes a glob of web and puts it over the drug dealer’s mouth. “And it’s Spider
-Man.
Get it right next time. And you know, choose a better life. I’m sure if you asked for help, we could get you outta this business, get you somewhere else entirely. You got a family? I’m seeing a beach house with your name on it, somewhere sunny and with no drugs at all.”
“Spidey, stop messing with him and let’s get going.” Hood calls out. Peter jumps to his feet, leaving Badr to grumble after him uselessly. Nightwing is already out on the fire escape and Hood is halfway out the window.
“So where are we going?” Peter asks, trailing after them. He had been asking Nightwing, but-
He’s gone already. He’s pretty much down the street by the time Peter is out on the fire escape with Hood.
Jason is looking between them both (at least, until Nightwing is out of sight, and then he’s looking at just Peter.), and based on the
tense dislike? not happy
his spider-sense hisses at him, Jason has very much noticed the interaction.
“Cherry Hills, Dock 10. Wing and Double-R are going to check out the boat as it gets closer to the harbor. Follow me.”
He kicks off into the street with his own grappling hook, Peter not far behind. He thinks he remembers reading Cherry Hills on a bus stop map before, it’s on the other side of the island, but it’s not far from Crime Alley where they’re at right now.
Since there’s a silence on the comms and they’re swinging, Peter is left to his thoughts. Even as he does the math in his head to get the perfect swings, he fails to silence his mind or the insecurities that are threatening to swallow him whole.
…Dick has been doing that, ever since Peter ran out on their conversation the other night/morning. (Technically, it was morning, but the fact that no one else had woken up yet, even Alfred, meant that it was still nighttime.) And by that, he means doing exactly what Peter had been doing this whole time: running away when Peter is nearby, avoiding being in the same room if he can help it.
Except he’s bad at it. Because Peter can tell that the only reason he enters rooms in the first place is to check on Peter, like he’s making sure Peter hadn’t disappeared, and then leaving when he sees that Peter is fine. So he’s not actually avoiding Peter, he’s trying to give him even more space than he already had been. And it eats away at Peter bit by bit, like his own actions had been doing before this.
Peter would be a massive hypocrite if he said that it hurt his feelings. He’s been much less kind about the way he avoids Dick, like Dick has the plague or something.
But it’s just that…
When Peter looks at Dick, he sees a stranger. And that is terrifying.
All his life, he had just guessed what could and couldn’t be his parents’ features on him. He had no idea what they might look like because their pictures were left in a storage unit that no longer exists. Ben and May always planned to put them back up when Peter would stop crying when he saw the photos, but it never got to happen.
Their faces were blurred, or just not in the picture, when he thought back on them.
And now, he looks at Dick and the guilt of not being able to recognize his own father’s face hits him like a freight train.
When he was really, really little, the TV used to have static. This was before Stark Industries had moved on from weapon manufacturing to creating for the every day person. The TV had a basic remote and it was a huge box, and it had the VCR player that Peter liked so much. Peter liked being able to lift his hand to the screen and feel the static as it hummed under his palm. The light flickered in his eyes and the noise was comforting, like hearing a waterfall.
Right after seeing the Flying Graysons poster, Peter felt like static, and suddenly that feeling wasn’t as comforting anymore.
From that moment until now, Peter has been switching between channels like someone else has the remote. One second he’s all static and
nothing, nothing, nothing
and it feels like he’s being buried under it. The next, he’s getting a startling clarity to his surroundings, and everything feels
too much, too much, too much.
Because everyone is looking at him expectantly, like he should be screaming and crying or bursting with anger. They look at Peter like they can’t figure out why he’s
not
doing that.
And that’s
too much
to process.
He doesn’t know why he’s not doing that either. When he’s not feeling the nothing, Peter is feeling a
scary
amount of emotions that he’s never had before. And each time he tries to talk to Dick or look at him, the static forms around the edges of his vision and he doesn’t want to face the nothing.
It’s childish, but he doesn’t know how to snap out of it. He’d rather be feeling the emotions, trying to label them so he can have some type of clarity. But when he tries to actually
think
about it, Peter feels ‘nothing.’ It’s infuriating, and that’s why when Peter had caught Dick sitting at the Batcomputer and had felt
relief
that he was there, the wind was knocked out of him.
It was the first time he’d felt something when looking at Dick for the past few days. It’s why he got stupid and talked about that nightmare-
All Peter could hold onto was ash and everything hurt hurt hurt like he’d be split apart and never come back again-
-and allowed himself the comfort. And then he looked up and it hit him all over again, yanked back the progress he just made, and that’s why he had to get out of there. Before Dick could see that his stupid kid from another dimension apparently doesn’t grieve or remember him like a good kid is supposed to do.
Like
Dick
does.
Dick seems to feel everything about his parents and their deaths. That’s why he got all freaked out about what Peter said at dinner. He’s a good guy, a good brother, a good son, a good dad to Damian, but even he would feel ashamed of Peter if he knew. So Peter is trying not to let him know.
Peter is a rotten child. He didn’t deserve Ben and May like he didn’t deserve his parents, and he certainly didn’t deserve Karen and her family, or Tony-
Peter almost slips while running a wall. He catches himself just before Jason can turn around to make sure he’s keeping up, and it’s like it never happened.
“Get a grip, Spider-Man.” He scolds himself under his breath.
Cherry Hills smells like the harbor before they even get there. It’s more of a residential area, if residential can be boiled down to houses for the people that work at the docks. But the farther that they go into it, the more and more warehouses and shipping containers they see. The buildings get smaller and smaller until they’re left hopping over roofs instead of swinging. Peter spots Nightwing and Red Robin in a flash of well hidden color, but they’re gone as soon as he sees them, headed towards the harbor.
watching
They land on top of a warehouse at Dock 10. There’s a skylight that looks down at the area below, but the entire room is casted into dark. Peter feels eyes land on him, but they aren’t from someone that he
knows.
The dock is silent, save for the rain sprinkling down and the water washing below. A dingy boat knocks against the side of the wooden dock, over and over.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The low buzz of his spider sense is warning him that the silence is-
wrong look it hear no
“Hood.” Peter hisses, all the hair on his body standing up.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“There’s only one heartbeat.” Peter warns him.
“What do mean, only one? That can’t be right, each of the warehouses have multiple people guarding them.” Jason runs a hand along the side of his helmet. He looks down inside the building, stalking the ledge of the side of the skylight, tense and ready to run or fight. “Damnit. There’s bodies inside. We might be too late.”
watching wrong bad get it out get it AWAY get it out
Peter is crouched low, tense and ready to run as he tries to find the eyes on him. Someone is trying to
stalk
them, he can feel it, can hear a single heartbeat around. His spider sense
hates
them, is pissed that they’re around. It’s not a danger warning, it’s almost like his spider-sense wants them gone, wants to chase them away, that they shouldn’t be around him.
But he doesn’t
see
anyone. Even in the low light and the rain making visibility harder, there should be a movement, a sign that they’re nearby. He tries to pinpoint their heartbeat, and all he comes up with is that they’re moving around, watching
him,
because they see
him.
“Hey, shitheads, we got bodies.” Jason is telling them on the comms. “The warehouse is full of them. Had to use thermal imaging, there’s no light inside.”
“They were alive minutes ago,”
Babs cusses under her breath.
“They literally just sent out a call to their boss that I intercepted. Whoever killed them is-”
“Still here.” Peter whispers. Jason catches it.
“You said you only hear one?”
“I don’t like them.” Peter stands up, feeling vaguely pissed off by their presence. The spider-sense agrees with him, that whoever is watching him is
bad ugly get it away chase it get it out.
“That’s not what I asked, oddly enough.” Jason stands up as well.
“Spidey, you alright? What’s going on over there?”
Dick’s voice joins them on the comms.
“The boat is headed your way. There’s people on board. Looks like whoever is responsible isn’t on the boat.”
“That’s cause they’re over here.” Peter says. He’s interrupted by the long, horrid screeching of metal.
It reverberates through the warehouse, echoing back at itself like a chorus of screams. Metal on metal, a teeth grinding noise like a fork scraping a plate, nails on a chalkboard- whatever hell that it’s called, it’s awful enough that Jason and Peter both rear back to get away from it. The warehouse shakes underneath them as whoever is making the noise drags it across the wall. When it stops, there’s a second where the echoes die out, casting them back into the quiet of the bay and the knocking of the dingy boat.
GET BACK!!!!!!!!
A huge metal rod breaks through the skylight glass.
The glass and metal fly into the air like a geyser, and it all comes crashing back down on top of them. Peter rolls to get away from it, grabbing Jason on the way by this jacket. The metal rod clangs sharply as it hits the ground below them.
“Hood, Spider, come in! What was that?”
“We got company!” Jason bites back, gun in hand.
“You got a name yet?”
“No, fuck off, it literally just happened. Keep an eye on the boat, we got this.”
Peter knocks open the other half of the skylight with a swift kick. The glass pane breaks way and mixes in with the rain on the warehouse floor. Peter jumps down first, avoiding one of the bodies and their blood on the ground.
get it out get it away get away get away
“What an unpleasant greeting,” Peter calls out to the dark. Jason hooks his grappling hook and meets Peter down on the floor.
There’s about twenty men down. Some of their skulls are cracked open, others are pointed like they had ended up shooting each other in the enclosed space. Peter gets to the middle of the warehouse when he spots the silver thread of spider silk on one of the corpses, who had been reaching for a phone.
On his hand, there’s a sticky note.
A GIFT FOR SPIDER-MAN :)
-BLACK SPIDER
“You like it?” A new voice calls out from the banisters. “I just
had
to have something to give you when I figured out we’d be meeting, finally.”
get it away get it away kill it crush it kill it-
Peter’s never had his spider-sense so volatile before. Every nerve in his body is telling him to chase the threat away, to make sure it doesn’t come back. Peter’s gut churns with sick, backing away from the sticky note and the corpse.
wrong it’s wrong it’s bad get it away
“Who the hell are you?”
“Can’t you read, Spidey? My name’s on the sticky note. Cool idea, by the way. Hope you don’t mind that I used it. Thought I’d have a little fun while I was back in Gotham. I missed this place, while I was training. It’s good to be home, as rotten as it is.”
“Spider-Man, where’s that heartbeat coming from?” Hood stands behind him, his back facing Peter’s. “Keep your head straight, don’t let him get under your skin.”
“But
imagine
my surprise-”
“He’s in the banisters.”
“-when I get back, and I find that
someone
has my whole persona, and is apparently on Batman’s side. Not to mention, he’s barely a
teenager.”
“Why don’t you come down here and we can talk about whatever grievances you seem to have?” Peter tries to push down the instinct that has his fingers twitching.
get it away get it out-
“Oh, no, I’m good. I have the whole scary monologue down to a science.” Black Spider replies. His voice carries over, making it harder to tell where he is, but Peter thinks he can see the outline of a man standing above him.
The rain patters down on the roof. Lightning flashes overhead, giving Peter a glimpse of the man- the other spider- that his instincts tell him to destroy.
Black Spider is a grown man around Jason’s height, though slimmer. He wears a purple and black suit, a spider web design on his neck and shoulders. He has red, Almost-Spider-Man eyes looking down at him, and a spider-symbol on his forehead. He’s studying Spider-Man just as intently, like maybe he hears the hiss of his own spider-sense telling him to kill Peter.
Only, this man is capable and willing to kill. Peter is not.
“See, I hide in the shadows to look down at you, like the little arachnid that you are, showing you exactly what I’m capable of with all the bodies littered around. I open up with telling you that Gotham is where I come from, and that I’m back…”
A distant explosion sounds off. It’s not that far away, since the air pushes past and rattles the warehouse. The sound mixes in with the thunder, the rain growing thicker, the wind beginning to howl and whip around. The storm is rolling in over Gotham.
“Then I tell you that my coworkers have your buddies preoccupied.” Black Spider has a breathy laugh. “And this is the part where I warn you, kid, that if you don’t leave right now, I’m gonna cave your skull in.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
【 As the thick smoke cleared, Luffy’s figure remained intact in the sky, seemingly unscathed by Kaido’s flames.
Kaido’s massive eyes widened in disbelief, and he asked in confusion, “Even fire is useless?! Why…?” 】
....
~Projection of All Worlds~
At this moment, not only Kaido was confused, but also the people outside the video were confused.
~A Certain Magical Index World~
"It is unscientific that rubber can withstand the lightning just now without melting!! And now it can't even melt at such a terrifyingly high temperature? Are you sure this is rubber?!!"
Shirai Kuroko exclaimed in dismay at what she had just witnessed.
Another chimed in:
“Are you sure this is rubber? It defies all logic!”
At this moment, the three views of everyone on the science side are about to be shattered. This is not scientific at all!
【 Luffy took a deep breath and answered loudly with pride: “Because I have perseverance!!!” 】
.....
~Projection of All Worlds~
The absurdity of his answer left everyone speechless.
What kind of reason is this? So idealistic...
~One Piece World~
~In the New World, In the Land of Wano~
Kaido on Onigashima hadn't been so angry for a long time...
“Perseverance? Do you think I’m a child?!”
This excuse only idiots will believe!
~The Straw Hat Pirates~
Meanwhile, aboard the Thousand Sunny, Chopper looked at Luffy with shining eyes.
“Perseverance!! That's no wonder,”
Luffy said as if it was a matter of course.
Except for Chopper, everyone in the Straw Hat Pirates stared at him as if he were an idiot...
Only the innocent Chopper believed this reason and was looking at Luffy with shining eyes and admiration!!
【 While Kaido was still reeling from shock, Luffy launched himself forward at breakneck speed.
"Gumo.... Gumo no
—
"
While speaking, Luffy turned into a red light, like a meteor, and rushed towards Kaido at high speed!
In the blink of an eye, Luffy appeared in front of Kaido!
"Kong Gatling-Gun!!!"
Luffy's hands danced quickly, and his fists attacked at a speed that was difficult to see with the naked eye.
The fist shadows in the sky hit Kaido like a storm!
"Boom!! boom!! boom!!"
This series of blows made the whole air vibrate, and even Kaido was suppressed and unable to move. He could only passively endure the fierce attack! 】
.....
~Projection of All Worlds~
Outside the video, spectators struggled to process what they’d just witnessed.
“Is it fake? ”
“Am I dreaming? ”
“How is this possible?”
This is the first reaction of everyone outside the video... Then came the question of whether it was really possible to defeat the Four Emperors!
~One Piece World~
Doflamingo gawked in disbelief.
“I’ve never seen Kaido suppressed like this before…”
It was obviously just a kid who was a dozen years younger than him, but he could do it to this extent!
Everyone in the Land of Wano looked at the screen and gradually ignited hope.
“Those attacks are wrapped in Ryuo Haki! Maybe… just maybe, we can win!”
Hyogoro watched intently.
Vice Admiral Garp was even more relieved and then showed a relieved look.
“Has he grown this much in just a few years?”
【 Kid and Law below were also shocked. Luffy suppresses Kaido!
With the continuous punches, Luffy's physical strength is gradually consumed, and the speed of his punches begins to slow down!
Luffy knows that the fourth gear is about to end, so he stops the punches!
He punches Kaido's dragon head with a powerful punch, and Kaido's huge body staggers! Then he falls heavily to the ground, and the whole of Onigashima is shaken!
The dragon body that was originally hovering in the sky also fell down, raising a huge smoke...
The people below Onigashima feel the vibration for no reason, and they all look up...
"Kaido..."
Big Mom in the sky is so shocked that she can't speak. She stays where she is. She can't imagine that a kid she despises can actually do this!
Everyone on Onigashima stared at Kaido, who fell to the ground.
Luffy was gasping for breath in midair, but he didn't want to miss this great opportunity!
"This is the final blow, Kaido!"
With Luffy's angry voice, his right hand began to compress continuously!
But the next second, Luffy's whole body shook, his eyes began to turn white, and he kept exhaling from his mouth!
Luffy's body, which had grown larger in Gear 4, was shrinking continuously. Without Gear 4, He plummeted to the ground, gasping for breath.
His body trembled as his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed.
“Straw Hat Boy!! When did he get defeated?!” Kidd shouted in alarm.
Kidd, who didn't know what was going on, looked at Luffy, who fell to the ground with a shocked face, thinking that it was caused by the attack of the Four Emperors!
Law explained grimly.
“It’s a side effect of Gear 4—he can’t use Haki for the next ten minutes.”
】
...
~Jujutsu Kaisen World Past Timeline~
“It’s similar to Heaven and Binding—a powerful attack at the cost of temporary vulnerability.”
Gojo Satoru looked at Luffy, who fell to the ground and thought, If this move doesn't work, it will become a burden instead!
~One Piece World~
~Navy Headquarters, Marineford~
Vice Admiral Garp clenched his fists tightly.
"Luffy is in danger now"
Vice-Admiral Garp didn't think that the attack just now could defeat Kaido, although he was stunned.
But it's far from enough to defeat Kaido, and he can't use Haki for the next ten minutes, so he can't face the attacks of the two Four Emperors at all.
At this moment, everyone in the Pirate World also breathed a sigh of relief, fortunately! Although the attack is very powerful, it has a time limit and side effects!!
Otherwise, it would be quite terrifying if it could be maintained all the time...
【 As the smoke dissipated, accompanied by lightning and thunder, Big Mom, who came to her senses, has come to everyone!
"What a big fight! Let's end it here!"
"Blade Mother Flame——"
With Big Mom's gloomy and terrifying laughter, she held the knife with both hands and slashed at Luffy fiercely!
A huge flame swept over, and the terrifying temperature made Zoro, who was holding Luffy, sweat coldly!
"Heart shock!"
Fortunately, at this moment, Law appeared in front of Big Mom in an instant and attacked Big Mom's heart with a heart shock, buying time for Zoro to escape!
"Wake up! Luffy!" Zoro, who had just gone to Luffy, was shouting anxiously.
At this moment, Kaido, who had just come to his senses on the ground, woke up and soared into the sky with his body circling!
Tornadoes began to appear, ruthlessly ravaging the earth, like a natural disaster that was impossible to resist!
Luffy and Zoro, who had just woken up, were also swept into the air by the tornado!
The huge wind force separated the two people by themselves, and Luffy was directly swept towards Kaido by the tornado!
"Luffy—!"
Zoro screamed as he watched his captain get sucked toward Kaido.
Before anyone could react, Kaido opened his massive jaws—and swallowed Luffy whole! 】
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Kuchiki Rukia's mind at point of contact
“You can see me?!”
Kaien-Dono! Oh- Oh it’s Kaien Dono– What– How
“Huh?! Yeah of course I can see you!”
——————
“Despite my appearance I have lived ten of your lifetimes and you have the audacity to call me chibi?!”
“I-”
“I would kill an insolent fool like you, but Shinigami laws forbid unauthorized executions.”
There is no more time to spend with him. This strange boy who looks so much like a dead man and can see so many things he shouldn’t be able to see. Like her... Like Hollows.
Yes. There was no more time.
Their downfall was imminent.
——————
“FOOL! Did you think it would be over if you gave him your soul?!”
Don’t die- Don’t die– Please not again. I wouldn’t be able to bear it–
“I-” A choked off sob, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m afraid I cannot console you. I am too badly injured to fight it.”
He is in anguish. Agony. She cannot help him. But– maybe she can? Perhaps–
“Do you want to save your family?”
“Just tell me how!”
He’s desperate, he’ll do anything, she likes his resolve.
“There is a way. I should say… only one way.”
“You must become a Shinigami.”
A dozen memories flash through her mind.
I’m sorry I couldn’t save you Kaien-Dono. Maybe I can save him.
A sword poised over his heart, “Give me the sword Shinigami.”
“Not Shinigami. Rukia. Kuchiki Rukia.”
“Oh… I’m Kurosaki Ichigo. Nice to meet you. Let’s hope this won’t be our last meeting.”
So much like him.
Foolish boy.
She smiles anyway.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
And then she pulls her arm back and plunges–
——————
Inuzuri was the worst the Soul Society had to offer. The grown-ups were all thieves and murderers, and the kids were like stray dogs.
Maybe that’s what they could only be their whole lives.
The man wants to kill the red-haired boy but not today. Today she’ll help him.
“DAMMNIT?! WHO TRIPPED ME!”
“Follow me.” She tells the boys before turning around and running and running—
——————
“Renji. Let’s become Shinigami.”
They are standing over the graves of their friends.
Fujimaru. Kosaburo. Mameji. Others who had been with them for a little while before they were killed anyway.
Only the two of them are left now.
“Alright.”
——————
“They said–” She hesitates, “I’m to be adopted into the Kuchiki family.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
“And I’ll be graduating soon. They’ve arranged for me to enter the Gotei.”
He isn’t saying anything. Why isn’t he saying anything?
“Renji I-”
“Don’t–” Her heart drops, and Renji breaks out into a smile so wide and false, “That’s great! The Kuchiki are a great and noble family! You’ll never go hungry again!”
And it’s all wrong and this isn’t what she wants why isn’t he saying something and she hates, and she hates, and she hates–
——————
He is… strange, her brother. If she could even call him that.
Even now, despite being surrounded by the finest of what Seireitei had to offer she doesn’t feel better at all, in some ways it never felt like she’d upgraded at all. Forever the stray dog of Inuzuri. Or not a stray now that the Kuchiki took her in. A pet.
Maybe the rumors had been right after all.
She misses Renji.
——————
The Head Office of Squad 13 feels… homelier somehow than the other big official buildings she’s been to.
A man approaches her with a simpering expression on his face, “Can I… help you Kuchiki-Dono?”
She hasn’t slept well in days, and all this fawning is making nausea well up in her throat and she hates it. She hates it she hates-
“I’m just a new officer.” She tells him, too tired to even feel awkward, “Please treat me like everyone else.”
“Yes of course.”
He doesn’t mean it.
——————
“Who is she?” “She’s one of the Kuchiki family.” “Their new pet huh?”
They think she can’t hear their whispers, or maybe they just don’t care anymore.
Whichever.
“Heard she was exempt from the Graduation Exam AND the Enlistment Exam.”
“What rich families do for fun hmph. They have no idea how hard we worked to get here.”
She really had hoped it would be different this time.
Was this it? Was this going to be the rest of her life-
“Hey!” A man kicks in the door, “What are you all doing here?! This isn’t a show! Get back to your posts!”
He was very bright and loud. And then all at once he was in front of her–
“I’m Kaien Shiba. Fukutaichou of the 13th Division. Please to meet you!” He looks at her expectantly.
“Oh…” She’s dumfounded for a moment, “Hello.”
He hits her over the head none too gently, “Huh? Hello? What kind of greeting is that?!”
She lets out a small sound that she will deny until her last breath was a shriek.
“I’m a Fukutaichou! You’re supposed to say, ‘Pleased to meet you Fukutaichou-San!’” He’s still shaking her and she’s half-convinced the exhaustion got to her and this is a fever dream, “What’s your name?”
“Ru- Kuchiki! Kuchiki Rukia.” She manages to stammer out.
“And?” He shakes her some more.
“Pleased to meet you Fukutaichou-San!” She says quickly.
“Good!” He grins and she has to squint for a moment, his smile is so bright, “You’re alright Kuchiki!”
Oh.
Maybe things aren’t so bad after all.
——————
She sits awkwardly, stiff and formal. She isn’t used to it. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be used to it.
“Uh– My–” She clears her throat before trying again, “My enlistment ceremony went smoothly.”
“Good.” His tone is unreadable as always and she hates that she can’t ever read him, can’t ever tell what he’s thinking, “What seat are you?”
Her stomach drops, “Uh– Well– I apologize, with my abilities, a seat wasn’t–”
“I see.” He cuts her off, still unreadable. Still unapproachable. Speaking like he was just checking another mark off his list of duties, “You may leave.”
Well.
That went alright...
——————
“What’s wrong Kuchiki? Why do you look like that?”
Nothing at all, everything was just fine.
“Knowing you, you probably won’t tell me what’s bothering you–”
“.......”
“But remember, as long as you’re a part of Squad 13. I’ll always be with you. For life. Got it?!”
Oh.
A lump of emotion rises in her throat. She really thought she’d never get to feel this again. Such caring warmth. Family.
——————
Ukitake-Taichou looks so somber. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him this serious. She wonders what it could be about.
“Her unit was annihilated.”
No. No. No. No No–
She was so wise and kind and powerful, and Rukia wanted to be just like her and Kaien-Dono. Oh Reio! Kaien-Dono–
“I don’t care what its capabilities are!” He looks like a dead man walking, like he’s already dead and waiting for his shell to pass onto wherever Shinigami go to, “You expect me to just sit here and wait?!”
This isn’t going to end well.
For anyone.
——————
“Taichou. Please!” She begs, “Taichou let me go help him!”
He will die. She knows he will die. She is watching it happen right in front of her eyes. And still, she will do nothing about it.
“But what will become of his pride if you save him?”
‘Damn his pride!’ She wanted to scream; ‘he can rebuild it once he lives.’
“If you save him you will end up killing him forever.”
He is already a dead man. He doesn’t say. He was dead the moment they brought back Shiba Miyako’s corpse to us.
——————
“Did you call my name, little girl?” The grotesque thing wearing Kaien-Dono’s face smirks.
“Are you worried about me?” It says in a sickening parody of his voice, “Am I that dear to you?”
No. No NO. NO- WRONG. WRONG WRONG– THIS IS ALL WRONG–
And then he’s lunging at her and maybe she’s going to die here too–
“RUN KUCHIKI!” Sogyo no Kotowari flashes in her vision, “DO YOU WANT TO DIE?!”
Her legs take her away before she can grasp what’s happening.
And behind her she can hear Ukitake-Taichou fighting with the Hollow and saying he’s going to kill Kaien-Dono along with him but then she hears a familiar cough and–
‘Taichou could die’, she thinks with absolute clarity and then ‘I’m not losing anyone else today.’
Then she’s sprinting back, the fastest she’s ever run right in time to catch it before it can land a killing blow.
“Kuchiki, you fool! Why did you come back?!”
Because she can’t run. She knows that. Not from this. She needs to finish this. She owes him that much. This thing that’s making a grotesque mockery of all that Kaien-Dono is.
“KILL HIM! YOU NEED TO KILL HIM KUCHIKI CAN YOU HEAR M-”
Her training kicks in, thousands of hours spent sharpening her Zanjutsu automatically makes her blade rise in response to the threat. Time slows for a moment, and her blade sinks into his heart with a wet slurch–
He’s dying. He’s dying and she killed him. Oh god– She killed him. She killed Kaien-dono please no–
“Kuchiki. Sorry I got you into this mess.” He rasps out barely alive and then he’s embracing her, “You… must have been scared.”
And she thinks this is worse than screaming. Worse than if he’d been angry at her for killing him. His thankfulness is killing her, and he should have just taken the sword and twisted the blade into her too—
“Thank… you.”
She wants to cry. She wants to tell him, ‘I ran because I was scared. I came back because I was ashamed of my own cowardice, and I used my blade because I couldn’t stand to see you suffer.’
“Now I can… leave my heart behind.”
He is dead. He is dead and all she can do is stare numbly at him and think, ‘Really. Really there is nothing to thank me for. I did it all for myself. I’m pathetic.’
‘I am so pathetic.’
——————
Life is a bit of a blur after that. She goes through the motions. And she even manages to pretend she is a real whole person.
Ukitake-Taichou and Kiyone-San and Kitou-San keep giving her these concerned looks when they themselves aren’t busy looking like the walking dead, bereft, in eternal mourning. But it’s fine, it's all fine.
Death is ironically enough a very expected part of a Shinigami’s life.
So why does it feel like someone’s gutted her and left her to bleed out on the streets.
Oh well.
She’ll get through it.
Inuzuri blood.
You either survive or you will die.
Maybe she hadn’t been meant for all that happiness after all.
——————
At first, she’d thought he didn’t like her very much so cold and distant he was, but she soon discovered that he was that way with everyone.
Almost like he existed on another plane, like he’d forgotten how to talk to anyone. Feel anything.
In some far-off corner of her mind, she’d even felt sad for him.
And afraid.
Because she was perhaps on her way to ending up like that.
Alone.
Especially after Kaien-Do- No. There was no time for such thoughts.
Maybe it had been different once, but she wasn’t deaf. She’d heard the whispers of the servants in the Manor, of how she looked like his late wife.
Was he cold to her too? She wondered, but then again, he mustn't have been. When he mourns her so deeply, still. She knows the look of all-encompassing grief too well after all. Renji and she had studied it intimately in each other’s faces.
But he was supposed to be family, and family showed their care for each other?
Didn’t they?
That’s what she and Renji did for each other.
Or… perhaps he just… showed his consideration in different ways.
She thinks about him shielding her from Ichimaru-Taichou ever so subtly when she’d brought up being wary of him just the once.
So reserved in his care.
Like the rest of him.
So maybe… he doesn’t dislike her so much after all?
——————
She is happy. For the first time in a while she feels happy.
“I brought you breakfast!” He says, so easily accepting of her presence, despite all his grumbling.
She eagerly takes it from him and digs in. The food in the human world is so good!
They are breaking so many laws and when someone discovers this, they’ll drag her back to Soul Society and throw her in prison but for now– For now she enjoys it. Having companionship. Family. And Ichigo.
Precious friend.
“Acceptable. Despite the lack of closet space, your food accommodations are excellent!”
“Lack of closet space?! If it’s bothering you that much why don’t you try finding your own space then Chibi!”
“Who’re you calling Chibi. Fool!”
——————
"I have no right to know. I don't have a method of stepping into the depths of your heart without it getting dirty. So, I'll wait. When you want to talk, when you think it's okay to talk.... Talk to me alright? I am your friend."
——————
“Hunters from soul society are at your heels. And you’re so lost in thought that you didn’t notice?”
It couldn’t last. Of course it couldn’t last. Happiness just wasn’t suited to people like her. She knew better than that after all.
“KUCHIKI RUKIA. YOU WERE TRAINED TO BE A SOUL REAPER.” He thunders, flame-bright, not like Ichigo though, angrier, sharper, hurting, “YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO WEAR A HUMAN EXPRESSION.”
And right. He was right.
Looks like they both hadn’t grown out of being strays after all.
——————
Ichigo is strong. He is stronger than she had thought. So much stronger. But he is no match for Nii-Sama after all.
“You are slow.” He says as he tears a hole through her dearest friend, “Even to fall.”
She hears herself scream and then she runs to him.
Renji is holding her back, but she needs to check on Ichigo- She needs to know if he’s alright– Please be alive– Please. Please be alive–
“I understand why you go to him.” Nii-Sama is saying but for once she doesn’t bother paying attention there are more important things, “He looks very much like Him, doesn’t he?”
“I’m…dead? And I look like somebody?” Ichigo grabs the edge of Nii-Sama’s Shihakusho.
Oh. Oh he’s alive. HE’S ALIVE! THANK REIO. THANK ALL THE GODS ABOVE AND BELOW HE IS ALIVE–
But then Nii-Sama raises his blade–
And then she acts.
——————
It is breaking her heart.
Nii-Sama and Renji take her to the prisoner’s quarters in Squad 6 barracks, and she doesn’t know if Ichigo is alive or dead. If Uryuu is alright. She knows nothing but she hopes Kisuke Urahara will get to them in time anyway.
“They’re going to execute you.”
Ah well, looks like her luck had run out after all.
She wonders what dying a second time would be like.
——————
“Your friends have made it into Soul Society. And they’re causing quite the ruckus.”
No. No. No– Ichigo you fool!
“I heard he declared he was going to fight all the Lieutenants and the Captains to save you if he must.”
Oh.
——————
“He defeated Abarai. And Zaraki-Taichou next did you hear?! What a monster.”
Despite it all, she begins to hope.
——————
They moved up the execution schedule.
“I can help you if you want.” Ichimaru Gin tells her, a sharp smile on his face.
“Just kidding!”
She screams and she screams, and she screams, and she screams–
——————
She is not afraid. Before, Ichimaru-Taichou had managed to unsettle her. But seeing Nii-Sama so composed in the face of duty, it feels almost tasteless to cling to life.
Yes.
She is a Shinigami. A member of the Kuchiki family to the last. A member of the 13th Squad. She will not do their memories a disservice.
She is lifted up onto the Sokyoku.
She is not afraid. She is not afraid. SheIsNotAfraid.SheIsNotAfraid. SheIsNotAfraid.SheIsNotAfraidSheIsNotAfraid. SHEISNOTAFRAID—
The blade with the strength of a Million Zanpakuto swings and–
Stops.
“Yo!”
——————
He throws her! Ichigo had the audacity to throw her! Just wait till she gets her hands on him–
“Come on. Time to run away.” Renji says as he catches her.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! I THOUGHT THEY ARRESTED YOU?!”
“Yeah well, things change. Now come on. Let’s go.”
——————
Aizen Sosuke is not dead. He just put a hole through her chest and took something– But she’s not dead– The hole in her chest is shrinking–
“The Konpaku itself is undamaged. Such an ingenious method.” He marvels, looking at the little thing in his hand, and then he looks at her, “But unfortunately you are no longer needed. Gin.”
And Shinsō is moving towards her, but she knows she cannot dodge in time and Oh– He’s about to kill her now– Oh. Just when she’d thought she was going to live–
She is carefully held in one hand as the blade sinks into Nii-Sama’s body with no resistance.
“Nii-Sama?” She whispers– no– this was wrong– this was all wrong– “Nii-Sama why?”
——————
“Kuchiki-Taichou is asking for you.”
She wonders what it’s all about.
“There... I must tell you–” He begins, and he tells her a story that makes things clearer and so, so much more muddled.
For the first time, he looks at her. And yet, even now she feels he’s looking right through her. But. He meets her eyes.
“Rukia.” He says, “I am sorry.”
‘That’s progress.’ She thinks.
——————
Waiting, so much waiting.
And so much training to do in-between.
They were nowhere near prepared.
——————
Kaien-Dono. Alive for a moment again. She knows better than to accept it but just for a moment she lets herself hope–
“You are sorry about killing me, right? Then cut off either your head or your friends’ head and bring them to me.”
Hope. Ah Hope. What a damnable thing.
She draws her sword.
It’s time to properly avenge Kaien-Dono at last.
——————
They won. They had won.
But at what cost?
He said it was worth it but was it really?
The best soul society had to offer. Captains. Lieutenants. Seated officers.
And yet none of them could compare to the barely trained Ryoka boy. Sixteen years old and carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
What a joke.
——————
“This is good-bye.”
“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”
“What’s this? Don’t look so sad. Even if you can no longer see me, I will still be able to see you.”
“What the hell? That doesn’t cheer me up at all! And I don’t look sad!”
“… Tell everybody I say hi.”
“…I will.”
“Jaa-na! Rukia. And….” She can tell his eyes aren’t perceiving her anymore, “Thank you.”
She stays until he leaves with Uryuu and Orihime and Sado and then when he’s finally out of sight she runs back to Soul Society, as fast as she can, the sting of tears unacknowledged.
There is work yet to be done after all.
——————
“We’re not even taking your useless life; you should be thanking us.” Kubo Ginjo says, and she wants to snap and snarl and cut off his head for the insult.
‘I should have visited. I should have found a way.’ She thinks distraught, and then Ichigo is screaming, and she remembers she has a job to do. She will give it back. She will give back everything they took from him. They all will. They owe it to him.
And then she raises the blade and brings it down–
“Rukia?” He whispers wonderingly like he can’t believe he’s seeing her.
“Yeah…. It’s been a while huh?” She says, achingly honest for a moment, “You’ve gotten stronger since the last time I saw you.”
——————
Quincy is their newest horror.
And the worst one by far.
They seemed almost invincible.
She’d thought she’d grown stronger.
She’d been wrong.
“Our Bankai isn’t… sealed.” Nii-Sama’s bewildered expression will haunt her, she knows, “It’s… been taken away.”
“Thank you for this gift. Kuchiki Byakuya”
No– NO–
She turns her back to the enemy.
Fatal mistake.
——————
Ichibei Hyosube says he will put them through the worst hell known to Shinigami. They will hate him and curse him and–
And that they will come out knowing the true meaning of strength after it.
They tell him they’ve never been afraid of hardship.
Only a meaningless death.
——————
This creature thinks it can cower her into submission, but fear is for the living.
She is a universal absolute.
The absence of vitality.
Of movement.
Of life.
Right down to the atom.
What use does fear have here?
“Bankai.” The word falls from her lips.
“Hakka no Togame.”
And the world is awash in white.
——————
“Slowly. Slowly thaw yourself. It is a beautiful Bankai, Rukia.”
——————
They won.
They won this one too, somehow.
Not that she’d doubted it. Ichigo always did. Even if they’d required the help of less than savoury company.
But their losses were too great, and she wasn’t sure they could recover from this.
Ukitake-Taichou’s death hung over what was left of the 13th division like a shroud.
And yet they lived. And so, they must go on.
——————
They did go on.
It had seemed so impossible.
Day by day. Week by Week. Season by Season.
They recovered.
They managed to remake a semblance of normalcy. Of coherence. Built a much closer and intimate relationship over their already existing bonds of friendship now that they can finally settle down. Build a family of her own. People she can call hers. She can let herself hope again.
Their new Sou-Taichou is much more willing to aid those not sitting at the top too.
And Ichigo’s ill-advised… friendship? With everyone’s least favored Muken resident... even that can’t destroy her happiness.
How he’d managed to strong arm Kyoraku-Taichou into letting him do that is still a mystery.
She suspects it had been due to Taichou’s own guilt about the whole mess and the massive debts they could never hope to repay.
Ah well. If that is the only thing they have to be wary of...
——————
Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something worse is just on the horizon.
She chalks it up to her own paranoia and buries it in the furthest corners of her mind.
And if Nii-Sama asks her why, even on her days off, she’s training her darndest to the point of near exhaustion… well, it could be passed off as the desire to be a worthier captain. A model to live up to the legacy of the clan and the Gotei.
——————
Maybe that’s why she wasn’t all that surprised when the Gates of Hell burst open.
Knowing that all the previous captains before her were condemned to hell was a shocker though.
At this point though, she really should stop expecting better from Soul Society.
But well… old habits and whatnot.
——————
“The gates aren’t just damaged. They’re torn beyond repair.” Kisuke Urahara tells them, “Only the Soul-King can either mend them or make new ones.”
“But the soul-king is…” She trails off.
Maybe this is the end for them after all.
“What will the consequences be if they remain torn?” Hirako-San asks.
“Well, soon the borders that hold the worlds together will start to break. They already are. Fast. Hollow infestation in the human world, the Dangai crumbling. Humans finding themselves in the spirit worlds despite not having left their mortal shells. And that is not to mention precious little we know about the lovely residents of Hell-” Kisuke rants cheerfully.
“Yes. Yes. Alright we get it.” Rojuro-san says, “It is the end of all. What can be done? What are our options?”
“Well. As I just said… there’s exactly one entity powerful enough to do immediate damage control and it’s not… shall we say, in the position to do so. And we can’t do anything as Shinigami. At least not fast enough to…”
“We’re fucked is what you’re saying?”
“Not exactly….” He says glancing at the Sou-Taichou meaningfully.
“We can…” Kyoraku-san begins in a deceptively mild tone of voice, “.... always crown a new one. A more cognizant one.”
The room breaks out into pandemonium.
“How would we even–” “A new soul king?!” “Who–”
Kyokraku-san holds a hand up, “I’m afraid I’ve kept a few things from you all. Even you Kurosaki-kun.”
Everyone turns to Ichigo, who looks ancient at the moment.
Not even a hundred years old.
The youngest one at the table.
And perhaps the wisest.
He closes his eyes and smiles wearily, “That corridor I passed through… I’d always suspected it wasn’t just a shorter path to the Reiōkyū.”
“It wasn’t the permanent seal on your power that gave it away then?”
“Well… I have known to be significantly more observant than people assume” And then he offers a wry grin, “Besides Sosuke and I talk.”
“I still can’t believe you’re on a first name basis with him.” Years and years of exposure have dulled her hatred into a strong dislike. She’ll never understand Ichigo’s fascination with the man.
Kyoraku-San frowns, “Your recorded conversations never showed anything of the sort.”
Ichigo just snorts at that, “Sosuke has been maintaining his Shikai indefinitely for years and his powers have grown. Your information is outdated.”
Everyone in the room tenses at that.
“Oh come on.” He drawls, sharp and artificially sweet, “You people are the only ones allowed to keep secrets?”
“Ichigo. It’s not about secrets, Aizen is a security threat–” Kensei begins.
“Who I can take care of if I absolutely must. I’m not going to let him hurt anyone, we only wanted a bit of privacy to talk. Now, can we come to the matter at hand. Please.”
“Yes. Of course. – the matter of your enthronement. What are your thoughts ab–”
“You know I will do it.” He says, “So why are you pretending like I have a choice?”
“Maa. Kurosaki-san. You always have a choice.”
“I don’t think I need to explain to any of you…” He smiles, bitter and weary and accepting all at once, “.... that it’s never once been a choice.”
——————
“I’ll be direct about this. Ichigo doesn’t have enough power to directly consume. Assimilate. And then be cognizant enough to do damage control if he absorbs the current power source. He’ll need time to grow into that power, time we don’t have.”
“We are assuming you have a plan.”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Since when have we ever did?”
——————
“You know I never thought I’d see the day.” Ichigo tells her as he turns around to take a final look at the off-white cream and red uchikake, heavily embroidered with ostentatious patterns and jewels encrusted throughout. Worth a fortune, more expensive than anything he had ever owned. A wedding gift from the Kuchiki Household.
He’d put his foot down when Sosuke suggested a Shiromuku. They compromised with the veil.
It was already bad enough that he’d lost the coin toss to decide who got to wear the groom’s attire.
They both could have but… honestly? It was funnier that way.
And besides, she suspected it was his way of clawing back a semblance of agenda from the whole ordeal which he doesn’t have control over.
“Hold still.” She kicks his shin, “I’m trying to get the eyeliner right.”
“If your makeup skills are as abysmal as your art skills, he’s going to run away the moment he sees me.” Ichigo despairs.
She kicks his shin again.
——————
The ceremony is beautiful; she is one of the few invited.
It is odd, she’d really thought he’d be more resistant to the idea but… oddly enough…
“You look happy.” She tells him once the cups of sake had been exchanged. The reception has an open bar and she’s a little drunk now and so emotional… so. So emotional, “You look so happy!”
“I think….” He whispers to her out of earshot of everyone… his new husband standing a little way away, understanding Ichigo’s need to surround himself with all his precious people, “I think this is what I am most happy about. I think… I have never felt happier. Isn’t it odd?”
“I’m glad.” She’s crying now, all the emotion she’s suppressed so far about everything, “I hate that you never had a choice. And I hate that you don’t have one either now. But I’m glad that you’re happy. I’m glad. I am so serious… I hate him for what he’s done, and you never have a guarantee with the bastard. But from what you’ve told me so far about him, what I have seen so far, I think he’ll make you happy like you fucking deserve. And you deserve it, more than anyone.”
He’s crying now too, a little bit, “Come on Chibi, you’re gonna make me cry and ruin that makeup you worked so hard on?”
“Who’re you calling Chibi?! Fool! I’m still older than you, show some respect!” She barks out, her voice all wobbly.
——————
The Enthronement is a much more somber affair.
Kyoraku-Taichou led the Honor Guard, six of them flanking their to-be-Kings on each side.
They are escorted all the way from the Central 46 chambers, after the token show of fealty, to Reiōkyū where the Royal Guard await them and of course– the corpse of the Soul King.
“We’ll take it from here.” Sosuke Aizen says before dismissing them.
They all stand guard outside anticipating and then—
It begins.
——————
The world shakes. For seven days the worlds shake.
They don’t move.
Not a single one of them.
On the third day– the assault of Hell begins.
——————
Nothing.
Not the Arrancars. Not Aizen. Not even the Quincies could have prepared them for this.
But they will persevere.
They Will.
They Must.
——————
On the fifth day they lose Iba-San. They never make it to Kirin-San’s Hot Springs fast enough to heal him.
They have no way of contacting the other worlds.
——————
On the sixth day something changes, and they bring in heavier hitters, focusing on Ise-San with a single-minded focus.
Despite their best efforts the Hell spawns manage to make off with her.
Kyoraku Sou-Taichou breaks formation and heads off after them.
Nii-Sama wordlessly steps in and takes charge.
——————
The Sou-Taicho comes back a broken man with her corpse.
——————
On the seventh day as they are getting overwhelmed by the annihilating charge it happens–
Kyoraku-San leads them to the throne room.
The Royal Guard kneel first.
And then they all do.
One by one.
Kyoraku-San offers up his sword.
“All hail the Reio. Lynchpin of the three worlds.”
“All Hail.” They repeat.
Glory to Aizen Sosuke. Glory to Kurosaki Ichigo.”
“Glory Be.”
——————
It works. It works for a little while. They just have to deal with the Hell spawns. They’ll do this. They’ll get thought this. Then they’ll rebuild. They always do.
——————
“What do you mean it’s destabilizing? HOW.”
“We don’t know. We’re trying to figure it out.”
——————
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be a regular battle. An army of Oni. A few high-ranking generals. They weren’t supposed to be here. They weren’t– he wasn’t– THEY WEREN’T QUALIFIED TO DEAL WITH THIS ALONE. THEY–
“GET OUT– EVERYONE NEEDS TO EVACUATE. HEAR MY COMMAND. THIS IS KUCHIKI RUKIA. CAPTAIN OF THE THIRTEENTH.” She screams amplifying her voice through Kido, “A KING OF HELL HAS MADE LANDFALL. EVERYONE EVACUATE. RIGHT NOW.”
A wave of reiatsu rolls through the battlefield, aiming to crush enemies and allies alike. Rukia sends out her own spiritual pressure at full strength to counter it; nullifying the brute show of strength to allow their own force a chance to pull back.
“Kuchiki-Dono–” A retainer from the Kuchiki household, currently serving as her second in command, materializes beside her,
“ –I...”
“I told everyone to evacuate. What the hell are you doing here?!”
“It is like you said, we must pull back, I– Your brother–”
“I AM A CAPTAIN OF THE GOTEI.” She snaps furiously at him, “THE ORDER TO PULL BACK WAS FOR THE REST. IF I RUN, WE WILL ALL BE SLAUGHTERED HERE. IF YOU WISH TO BE OF ACTUAL USE, GET OUT AND GET ME MORE CAPTAINS.”
Thankfully the man doesn’t argue and shunpos off.
The Hell King is making his way leisurely towards them as a show of dominance, the army of Oni pulling back as well. It would appear he wants the battle to remain unhindered by beings who aren’t his prey.
It doesn’t matter. Each seconds give their soldiers another moment of retreat.
She takes a deep brea-
“RUKIA LOOK OUT!”
A moment– It had only been a moment. So fast. It cannot possibly have happened so fast it– She was knocked back and landed nimbly in the air regaining her balance in a tenth of a second and– And–
A loud boisterous taunting laugh that barely registers in her ears echoes as she looks at the sight before her that’s– not real. It can’t possibly be real– IT CAN’T– IT CAN'T—IT CANNOT BE!!!
“Ahaha- That’s one down. And so soon too! I was hoping for more of a fight. Are the famed Taichou of the Gotei; The Pillars of Soul Society and the afterlife truly so weak?”
She shunpos to where Renji
has bled out
.
cut down
.
fallen
.
is lying injured. She freezes him down to cryogenic temperature wordlessly. There will be time to heal him later. She’d done it before. A hundred times. The most severe injuries, preserved in the cold. And later unfrozen. Kisuke would heal him right up. Or Kirin-San’s springs. Or Isane-San. Or Hanataro. A dozen accomplished healers are at their disposal. Yes. Yes. Renji would be fine- He would be FINE. HE WOULD BE FINE. HE WAS FINE– HE HAD TO BE – HE WAS–
Her hand is raised on autopilot to deflect the second oncoming attack.
It sears half her arm.
(She doesn’t feel it. Can’t feel much of anything right now. Only the sight of Renji preserved in ice and the battlefield around her. HER ENEMY. And she feels HATE. Hatred that doesn’t boil her blood no. The cool kind. The one that slithers into the veins and creeps into the mind. Sharp and biting and cruel–)
She stands up.
[Note about Absolute Zero: Considered to be an unattainable temperature, it is the lowest point of the given universe. An absolute, as the name implies. A universal truth. A power that matches the scale of the very cosmos.]
“Mai.”
Today she won’t just protect Renji (
her.husband.her.love.her.heart
. who will wake up soon. He will. He will. HE MUST–) She will avenge every fallen comrade. Restore the dignity of every captain torn apart by this beast who would make a mockery of their corpses after murdering them before fleeing back to his elusive stronghold.
He laughs again, vulgar and repulsive, “Come little girl. Maybe I will have mercy and you and your little lover can–”
The whisper comes, quiet and lethal.
“Tsukishiro.”
“
AAAARRGH—
” The howl the wretched beast lets out as he fails to dodge her entirely and losing an arm in the process is a balm to her aching heart, “
YOU LITTLE WHORE. DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY OF YOUR LITTLE CAPTAINS I HAVE SLAIN. JUST LIKE THEM I WILL TEAR YOU APART. I WILL TEAR YOUR LIMBS APART AND TAKE YOU ALIVE TO PARADE YOU AROUND AND SHOW TO MY EMPEROR AS A TROPHY–”
She pays no attention to the barking of the animal who hasn’t yet realized he will die and readies her next attack.
“
Bankai
.” Her whole being turns to frost, the ground underneath her trembling and shaking.
[A brief note about cryoseisms, ice quakes or frost quakes: A seismic event caused by a sudden cracking action in frozen soil or rock. Cryoseisms are often mistaken for minor intraplate earthquakes. Initial indications may appear similar to those of an earthquake with tremors, vibrations, ground cracking and related noises, such as thundering.]
[The power to break open Earth itself.]
On this day, Kuchiki Rukia, Captain of the Gotei, vows to render her biggest share of military achievement yet and deal a critical blow to the enemy.
Today she will drench the battlefield with the blood of a King of Hell.
“
Hakka no Togame.
”
——————
She doesn’t remember much of the battle and later, when they ask her, she is only able to recall brief flashes. But the aftermath, that she remembers startlingly clear. One that will be burnt into her memory forever.
Nii-Sama steps into her field of vision. He says something but she doesn’t make out whatever it is as she slowly comes to herself. The distinct taste of blood in her mouth.
“ -kia. Rukia.” His voice is so gentle, so very gentle like it so rarely is; warmth and worry suffused into every syllable. He kneels beside her and places his hands on hers where she’s desperately clutching at Renji, uncaring of the frostburn, “Rukia. Imouto. What happened? Tell me.”
All at once the entire world comes crashing down, all her strength leaving her. The harshest cold melts as she lets go, unable to hold onto HIM anymore and collapses, Nii-Sama’s arms propping up all three of them.
“I killed him.” She sobs loud and hysterical, “I killed him. I KILLED HIM. I KILLED–”
“It’s alright.” He rocks them both gently, so gentle as if it makes a difference and she wants to scream that NOTHING IS ALRIGHT. EVERYTHING IS WRONG.
“I know.” He whispers hoarsely, tightening his grip and she realizes she’s been screaming out loud in his ear.
His own grief must be overwhelming, but he still stays upright. For her. And- And for- For–
“He’s dead.” The tears feel like they might never stop. How will she go on? What will she do now? What–
“We’ll figure it out Imouto. I promise you.”
“He’s dead. Nii-chan.” She pleads petulantly like a child, like one she has never once been, “Nii-chan please. Nii-chan. Do something. I never asked. I never asked for anything. You need to fix it. Nii-chan. I promise I won’t ask for anything again.”
Nii-Sama looks crushed under the weight of her request, but he can grant her this. He is Kuchiki Byakuya, clan head of the First Five Noble Houses. He is so powerful. One of the most powerful Shinigami alive. Surely this one little thing he can grant her.
“Please.”
“I’m sorry Imouto.”
“Please.” She begs.
“I can’t.”
“Please.”
It is all she is able to say for a while.
——————
For days she is a living corpse, no different from the lower ranked mindless Oni they hunt.
Grief has hollowed out her very bones, but she perseveres. She must.
(What else can she do?)
Inuzuri blood through and through. Survive or die.
(Somedays she wishes she could choose the latter after the desire for vengeance that burnt so bright and toxic and hot has long been extinguished leaving her with this gaping empty void in her soul again.)
She wonders how much longer she can hold on. How much longer they all can hold on.
——————
It isn’t enough, they are losing too many people and too fast.
They’re doing everything they can. The worlds are destabilizing again why–
They had enough power; they had more than enough power.
(They have more than enough power.)
——————
“No. No–” She slams her hand down on the table, weary. So weary. All these years at war have worn her down, “You cannot be serious. You cannot be! There has to be another way! All this effort. All this fucking effort. All that we have sacrificed and now this?!”
“You don’t think we know that?” Urahara is just as tired as she is. Kyoraku-San should have been here for this conversation but he’s a husk of his former self these days. All he does is fight and drink. Near indistinguishable from Zaraki.
“Aizen will never agree to it. No matter how changed he is. They both are. No matter how much he loves Ichigo. He will never agree to it.” She reminds him bluntly, “And I won’t fucking either. Some others too. We may all be ungrateful bastards but there is a line to be drawn.”
“I know.” Even Kisuke is running out of ideas it seems, so run ragged he is. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll figure something out.”
——————
“I found something.” He bursts in with a wild animal look in his eyes, “This could work. I recruited Mayuri, I recruited Tessai, Senjumaru, I recruited every goddamn mind we have. And the numbers and the seal patterns check out, at least with what variables we can control, and I don’t know. It’s a long shot. But we’re fucked anyway. All it does is shortened whatever time we have left if it fails but if it works– If it works–”
And she looks and Oh– The madman. The genius. Motherfuck–
“There’s just one problem.” She hates to be the one to tell him this, “Now Ichigo will be the one who’ll never agree to it. He’ll say the price is too great.”
“And that’s why.” Kisuke says, a glint in his eyes, “We will talk to our other king about this.”
“Ah.”
——————
They bring it to the others. Their allies, the Shinigami, the remaining humans on the fighting side. The Arrancar who have joined their fight.
As expected, they are ready.
Even Kenpachi of all people.
There is no other choice after all.
——————
“You’re serious?!” Ichigo bursts out smiling, so bright, in an increasingly rare moment of coherence when he is not consumed by the matters of the Universe at large. Flame bright. She doesn’t think she’s seen such happiness on anyone’s face in a while, “You found a way?!”
He turns to his husband and asks, eager and smiling, and so so unsuspecting, “You knew about this? You all figured out a way where no one has to die?!”
Now that his back is turned, the air thickens: shame hangs like fog. The weight of their deception is near crushing them but not him, not Aizen Sosuke. He just brings Ichigo’s palm to his lips and places a gentle kiss on it, no trace of anything other than fondness on his face, “It definitely took a while, and we didn’t want to get your hopes up before anything was confirmed but…Of course. Or are you doubting Kisuke’s genius?”
“No but…” He shudders a little, “... it seems too good to be true you know? After all this time at war…”
And she wants to open her mouth; she wants to fall to her knees and spill everything and beg his forgiveness for what they’re going to make him an unknowing and unwitting accomplice to but… Nii-Sama looks at her and shakes his head.
Just once.
And she comes back to her senses. Yes. Of course. They have taken enough. It is time to give back. Telling Ichigo would serve no purpose but to absolve their guilt. There are greater things to consider.
Like saving him.
And all the while, Ichigo is blissfully unaware of the future, only eagerly anticipant as he embraces his husband who for once has a conflicted expression on his face, now that Ichigo can’t see him either.
Huh. Looks like the bastard did have a heart after all.
——————
“Ready?” Kisuke asks Ichigo playfully as he finishes setting up the last of the array.
“Of course.” Ichigo replies with all the bold confidence and swagger of his fifteen-year-old self.
She misses those days.
But well, they’d have more of them soon if this works.
“Quite the crowd we’ve gathered here huh?”
“Maa Heika we’ll be needing every spare bit of reiatsu for this to work.”
“Alright alright! I got it.”
“Now you just stand there and pour your power into it alright. Don’t worry about the rest. And remember–”
“Yes. Yes. Don’t stop until the seal is fully activated no matter what. I got it!”
——————
The seal is live, and they all are pouring every last bit of power they have and then their life force. The seal connects them all and she can feel the weaker ones fade completely first and then she too is slowly eroding, all of her being assimilated into the Hogyoku–
And she is Kuchiki Rukia and she is Kurosaki Ichigo and she is Aizen Sosuke and she is Hirako Shinji and she is Kuchiki Byakuya and she is Kyoraku Shunsui she is everyone and no one. She is everything and nothing all at once and then—
Silence.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
This was a most vexing position to be in, Elizabeth thought, to know that she loved Mr. Darcy and to suspect that Mr. Darcy still loved
her
, and yet to be completely unable to say anything about it. All she could do was wait for
him
to say something instead, though the likelihood of that happening seemed to dwindle as the evening wore on.
To be entirely truthful, she didn’t know if she
would
be able to say anything at all, even if she were allowed to. The prospect of their shared affection was both pleasing and terrifying, and she was growing uncharacteristically tongue-tied whenever she looked at him lately, with his handsome face and his bright blue eyes and that demeanor of his that had never seemed so formidable before. They would be perfect for each other, Elizabeth knew now, and yet they were stuck in this impasse, neither of them bold enough to take a step forward, each hoping for a signal or a sign from the other, each becoming paralyzed by their own overthinking.
Walk over to me.
If she thought it hard enough in his direction, maybe she could make it happen.
Take me to the corner of the room, away from the others’ eyes. Speak to me. Give me some hint as to how you are feeling.
But Elizabeth, it seemed, did not have powers of subliminal persuasion, for Mr. Darcy remained where he was. She fancied, though, that he had looked up at her before his eyes quickly darted to his own feet again. Perhaps that was progress.
Still, it was a vexing position indeed, and a ridiculous one. Elizabeth tried not to huff her displeasure aloud where everyone could hear it.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
[Art] The Fun’s Just Starting - Chapter 1 - fandom Marvel 2025 (Marvel_Fandom) - Multifandom [Archive of Our Own]
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Rating:
Explicit
Archive Warning
:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Category:
F/M
Fandoms:
X-Men (All Media Types)
X-Men (Movieverse)
Marvel (cinematic universe)
Marvel (Comics)
Relationship:
Logan | Wolverine/Raven | Mystique (X-Men)
Characters:
Raven | Mystique
Logan | Wolverine
Additional Tags:
Fandom Kombat 2025
Don’t copy to another site
Girl Penis
Anal Sex
temporary girl penis
Futanari
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Language:
English
Collections:
Fandom Marvel Summer-2025
,
Level 6: Спецквест 2025 (Альтернативная анатомия)
Stats:
Published:
2025-09-19
Words:
4
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
1
Kudos:
3
Hits:
44
[Art] The Fun’s Just Starting
fandom Marvel 2025 (Marvel_Fandom)
Summary:
Логан не смог отказать любимой женщине, ради нее даже жопу побрил.
Chapter 1
Chapter Text
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Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
JASPER
The windows are still fogged, the air thick with the scent of her, of us. My body is rigid with the kind of restraint I hadn't needed since the battlefield.
Laoise is slumped against me, her skin hot and slick where it pressed mine, her breath shallow against my throat. She had unraveled in my arms, and I had come apart in hers, and now… there was a mess.
I reach out for the glovebox with a shaky hand and pull out a packet of napkins. It feels absurd— centuries of carnage, and here I am, fumbling with paper napkins like a teenager caught red handed.
“Hold still,” I mutter, my voice rough.
Her eyes flutter open, a lazy smirk curving her lips. “You’re seriously gonna clean me up like some kind of gentleman?”
I don’t answer, I just drag the napkin over her inner thigh, careful, my jaw locked tight at the sight of what I’ve done to her. She shivers but doesn’t stop me. I swipe over myself, less gentle, because the memory of her hand there was still making my vision swim.
She slides off my lap with a soft sigh, tugging her thong and skirt back on. By the time she’s fully dressed, she grins at me like the devil herself.
“Let’s skip rest of the day. I want to do something fun.” She says with a grin.
“Milkshakes?”
She asks, making me reverse out of my parking spot like her words are my commands.
LAOISE
We arrive at a diner 15 minutes away from the school. The diner smells like coffee and syrup, the air humming with chatter. All I notice is him. How he walks next to me, just enough that his arm brushes mine. I notice how his eyes track the curve of my skirt as I slide into a booth.
I order a strawberry milkshake, he orders vanilla, and when the waitress leaves, he sits across me like he’s carved from stone.
So I decide I need to crack him.
The milkshake arrives tall and pink, whipped cream piled on top. I wrap my lips around the star slowly, deliberately, sucking hard until my cheeks are hollowed. My tongue flicks against the plastic when I pull back.
His knuckles tighten on the edge of the table.
“Mmm.” I sigh, licking a droplet of strawberry from the corner of my lips. “So good.”
“Laoise.” His voice is a warning.
I kick his feet under the table, feigning innocence. “What?”
But when I slide my foot higher, up his calf, his hand shoots under the table and grips my ankle.
“You’re playing with fire,” he mutters.
“Then burn,” I whisper, grinning.
JASPER
Every nerve in my body is screaming. She is licking that straw like she knows exactly what it does to me, and she is right.
I force myself to drink my shake fast, finish in a few gulps. That must be the first time I’ve eaten anything but blood in years. My throat is tight, my jeans tighter.
When we finally leave, I think maybe the fresh air would cool me down. I was wrong. We find ourselves inside of an arcade. And dear god.
The arcade is worse.
Neon lights, pulsing music, the squeal of kids running past— it should’ve been a distraction.
“Basketball first,” she declares, dragging me towards the hoops. Her skirt swishes around her thighs, hypnotic.
She throws her first shot easily into the basket, smug. I match her.
It becomes war fast. Ball after ball, the machine rattling, her giggles filling the air as she tries to trash talk me.
“You’re not even that good,” she teases.
I swish three in a row. “Better than you.”
When the timer buzzes, she squeals — she’d won by two points.
“Loser owns the winner a price,” she says, eyes gleaming.
“What price?” I ask warily.
Her grin turns wicked. She leans closer, whispering in my ear, “You’ll find out later.”
LAOISE
We move from game to game, the tension strung tighter with every round.
At skee-ball, he lines up perfectly, throwing each ball smooth, consistent. I lean against him, hip brushing his as I toss mine wildly.
“Are you even trying?” He asks.
I giggle. “Maybe I like losing.”
On the racing simulator, I beat him by a mile, mostly because he kept glancing at my legs instead of the screen.
“Distracted?” I tease, swinging out of the seat.
His jaw is tight. “You’re evil.”
By the time we hit the claw machine, we are both laughing so hard I nearly double over. He actually manages to grab a stuffed bear, dropping it into the chute with ridiculous precision.
He hands it to me. “Your price.”
I hug the bear dramatically. “My hero.”
By the time we leave my skin is humming, my pulse racing.
JASPER
We race to the car, me chasing after her as she clings to her new bear.
I collapse onto the drivers seat, breathing hard. The air between us is heavy and thick. I stare at her, half in awe. She’s sitting there, flushed and out of breath.
She reaches for the front console, looking for something. Opening it her eyes open wide, looking at something. I freeze on the spot, remembering the condoms and the receipt from earlier morning.
She reaches down to the console grabbing the packet of condoms and the receipt. She scans the receipt with her eyes, before a wide grin spreads on her lips.
“You know… we won’t need these,” she says softly, brushing a finger along the edge of the package.
My jaw tightens, caught off guard and she grins, leaning in close. “I’m on the pill.”
“You… what?” I manage to say out, voice rough.
“I’m on the pill,” she repeats, casually, like it’s no big deal. Her hand brushes against my thigh, and I can’t stop the groan that escapes my mouth.
“That’s good to know,” I say, the only thought in my head, me bare inside of her. I push out the thought and start up the car.
“It’s already 8pm. I should drop you home.”
She nods, buckling her seat belt.
The drive to her house is quick and as I arrive, I want to stop her from going inside and take her in this car. Instead I give her a smile as she opens the door and gets up from her seat.
“I had fun today, Jasper.”
She says smiling widely before closing the door and running to the front door.
God how did we get here. It was only supposed to be physical.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The water’s freezing.
It bites at her hands as she scrubs, red and raw, knuckles scraped from too many passes. Milo’s blood is stubborn: caked beneath her nails, dried into the creases of her palms from the night before. She didn’t get it all then. Couldn’t.
Now, under daylight, she’s not letting it stay.
The creek runs quiet around her. Just the current and the rhythmic rasp of skin on stone.
Footsteps crunch behind her. Slow. Deliberate.
Shane.
He stops a few feet back. Doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t look up.
A moment passes.
Then:
“I told them he turned.”
Sonia exhales through her nose. Not surprise. Just pressure releasing.
“They believe it?”
“Some do. I said it was dark, you tried to stop him, he came at you… the kid panicked. Shot a walker.”
A pause. “Close enough to true.”
Sonia doesn’t respond. Her thumb is digging into her palm, the nail cutting deep.
“They didn’t see much,” Shane adds. “But they remember he was fine yesterday. Talking. Walking around. No bite.”
Sonia keeps scrubbing.
“They don’t know how it works,” he says. “Not really. Not yet.”
She mutters, “Neither do we.”
Shane steps closer. Leans on the boulder beside her, arms crossed.
“What the hell do we do with a kid who just killed his own father?" he asks, voice low.
She doesn’t answer.
“I mean,” he says, quieter now, “you’re the prosecutor. The moral compass. Right?”
That makes her glance up. Her face is blank, eyes tired.
“You really wanna talk morality,” she says quietly, “after everything we’ve seen?”
He doesn’t flinch. “No. I wanna talk about him. Max.”
Sonia shakes her head, looks back to the water. Her voice is quieter now. “He’s just a kid. He was trying to protect someone. That used to matter.”
“It still does,” Shane says. “But not everyone’s gonna see it that way. Some of these people barely know his name. They’re scared. Hell, David looked at him like he was a monster.”
“David vomited.”
“Yeah. And then he backed away like Max pulled the damn trigger on him.”
Sonia’s jaw ticks.
Shane straightens, tone softer now. “You’re the only one that kid’s got. So I’m asking… what are we gonna do?”
Sonia dries her hands on her shirt. The fabric's ruined, more blood than water, but she doesn’t care. She crouches again, arms braced on her thighs, watching the creek flow like she’s trying to cross-examine it.
“If this were still the world we knew,” she says, voice even, “Max would be in handcuffs right now. Booked on second-degree murder. Voluntary manslaughter if I could argue extreme emotional disturbance. Which I would. He’s sixteen. Old enough to be tried as an adult, especially in Georgia.”
Shane raises his eyebrows. “Adult?”
“Legally? In a murder case?” She nods once. “They’d try. Hell, I would. Dead father, shaky motive, only witness is the one he saved. Prosecutor would say it was rage. Defense would argue trauma. If I had the case, I’d push for juvenile court, but it’d be an uphill battle.”
She exhales through her nose, not quite a sigh.
“He’d probably get time. Maybe ten years, maybe less if he kept his head down and got a decent therapist behind bars. But he’d have a record. That’s the thing. The system doesn’t care how right the moment felt. It only cares about the shot.”
Shane kicks a stick into the water, jaw tight. “That ain’t right.”
“No,” she agrees. “It’s the law.”
They fall quiet for a beat. Then Sonia rises to her feet and looks back toward camp.
“In this world, though? No court. No process. Just scared people trying to make sense of something they didn’t see. And the second someone decides Max snapped, it’s over.”
Shane follows her gaze. Max is sitting on a stump, hands tucked under his arms, head down.
“You really think they’ll come for him?”
“They won’t need to come with pitchforks,” Sonia mutters. “They’ll just avoid him. Whisper about him. Treat him like he’s dangerous. And that’ll do the damage for them.”
Shane’s quiet. Then he mutters, “So what, we lie?”
“We tell the truth,” Sonia replies. “He saved my life.”
She turns to go.
He catches her arm. “That’s it?”
Her voice softens, but only slightly. “That’s what matters.”
Shane stares at her, eyes narrowing. “Still playing the ‘just a prosecutor’ card?”
Sonia just looks at him. Says nothing.
Then:
“They’ll know when they need to.”
She doesn’t wait for a response. Just turns and walks.
Shane follows.
They cross the camp in silence, past early risers warming canned beans and shaking out blankets. A few kids chase each other barefoot through the gravel. The air smells like smoke, earth, and the faint sourness of old sweat and panic.
They find Dale near his camper, hunched in a folding chair, sipping something that smells faintly herbal. A pair of binoculars rests in his lap, forgotten. He sees them approach and straightens up.
“Morning,” he greets, eyes flicking between the two. “How you doing, Sonia?”
“I’m fine,” she replies. Her voice is calm, practiced. She doesn’t look fine, but she’s good at saying it like it’s true.
Dale gives a slow nod, then glances at Shane. “That was your kid yesterday? The one who…?”
Shane shakes his head. “No. That was Max. His mom didn’t make it.”
Dale exhales through his nose. “Damn.”
Sonia crosses her arms. “We’re trying to get ahead of what comes next. We need a map.”
He blinks. “Map?”
“There’s a girl in camp,” Shane says. “Grace.”
“She’s diabetic,” Sonia adds. “Type 1. She didn’t tell anyone.”
Dale’s entire expression shifts. “Wait… what?”
“She ran out of insulin days ago,” Sonia says. “She has maybe two vials left. Maybe.”
He stares at them, mouth half-open. “Jesus Christ. She’s been walking around camp. She helped me drag water yesterday. And she didn’t say anything?”
“Nope,” Shane mutters. “She figured she was just gonna die.”
Dale looks genuinely rattled. He sets his mug down on the camper’s step and goes digging into a crate just inside the door. “I’ve got an atlas. It’s old. Pre-GPS era.”
He pulls out a thick spiral-bound book and hands it to Sonia.
She accepts it, flipping through pages. Her brow furrows, thoughtful, already scanning for routes.
Dale watches her a moment longer. “That hunting yesterday. The three rabbits. You just pick that up from weekends with your dad?”
Sonia looks up. “Something like that.”
There’s the faintest twitch at the edge of Dale’s mouth, like he’s trying to connect dots but hasn’t quite got the full picture. “Well, good thing you’re here.”
She closes the map. “Yeah.”
“Let me know what you find,” Dale says quietly. “If there’s anything else I can give you.”
“We will,” Shane nods, then follows Sonia as she turns back toward the others.
Behind them, Dale looks down at the untouched coffee in his mug and exhales like the wind’s been knocked out of him.
The camp is already stretching awake when Sonia and Shane make their way back down from Dale’s RV. Smoke curls up from the fire pit, and the smell of old coffee mingles with damp pine. Sophie sits cross-legged near the logs, peeling bark off a stick. One of the Morales kids—the girl, probably ten—is braiding something into another girl’s hair. The boys are off near the Humvee, talking loud and too fast, still thrilled from yesterday.
Sonia’s eyes drift toward a woman she hasn’t seen before. Young, maybe late twenties, with thick arms and her hair tied in a tight bun. She’s got a toddler on her hip and a baby bundled to her chest, both quiet for now. Sonia slows slightly. The woman doesn’t notice her watching, she just keeps swaying in that unconscious mother rhythm, rocking side to side while talking to another adult.
Shane splits off without a word, heading toward Morales.
Sonia turns to keep moving, but someone steps in her path.
David.
He must’ve heard them from the fire. His jaw is tight. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t even frown. Just says, low:
“You’re going?”
Sonia doesn’t answer at first. She looks past him, like she might keep walking anyway. But she stops.
“Yeah,” she says.
“Alone?”
“It’s faster that way.”
He studies her. Her collar’s a little askew. The bruises still bloom faintly at her throat.
“You were strangled yesterday.”
Sonia exhales through her nose. “And now I’m breathing. What matters is that I can shoot.”
David’s eyes flick toward Sophie, then back to her. “Just don’t want to wake up tomorrow without you.”
Sonia softens a bit.
“She’ll be safe here. I trust Lori. And I trust you.”
David nods. But his hands stay at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
Sonia reaches out, quick and quiet, and touches his arm. Not long. Just enough.
“Come back,” he says quietly.
“I will.”
She steps past him, only for someone stepping in her path, again.
He’s young. Skinny, kind of wiry, with a mop of black hair and an expression like he’s still getting used to being alive. Not more than twenty-two, if that. Hoodie, torn jeans, Converse. An old messenger bag slung crossbody, duct tape barely holding the flap closed.
“Hey,” he says.
Sonia lifts a brow.
“I heard… you saying you’re heading out. You’re Sonia, right?”
She narrows her eyes slightly. “Depends.”
He hesitates, then sticks out a hand like they’re meeting at a fucking orientation.
“I’m Glenn.” A beat. “I think I can help.”
Her eyes flick down to his hand. She doesn’t shake it.
Instead: “You think wrong.”
Then she steps past him.
Glenn catches up. Of course he does. Sonia doesn’t stop, but she hears his footsteps fall into rhythm beside her.
“I know Grace,” he says. “From before.”
She gives him a sidelong glance. “Before what?”
“Before the world ended.”
Sonia exhales slowly through her nose.
Glenn keeps talking. “We went to the same college. I was poli-sci for like a second before switching to psych. She was pre-med but used to come to all the behavioral lectures anyway. Said she liked hearing how people work.”
“She still does,” Sonia mutters.
“She told me about her diabetes back then. Type 1.” Glenn slows a little. “If she didn’t say anything here… then it’s worse than I thought.”
They walk in silence for a beat. Sonia doesn’t look at him, but she doesn’t walk faster either.
“She’s not gonna make it without insulin,” Glenn says. “You know that.”
Sonia stops.
Turns.
“Why the hell do you think I’m going?”
Glenn meets her eyes. “Then let me come with you.”
She stares at him hard. Like she’s peeling him apart without touching him.
“You’re what, twenty?”
“Twenty-three.”
“You ever shot a gun?”
“A few times.”
“You ever killed anything?”
He swallows. “No.”
“Then sit your ass down.”
“I know the area,” Glenn says quickly. “I used to deliver pizzas all over Atlanta. I know shortcuts, side alleys, gas station layouts, which parts of the city are garbage for traffic. And since none of that changed much except the rotting corpses, I can probably keep us alive long enough to find a working pharmacy.”
Sonia blinks.
Just once.
Then: “You deliver pizzas.”
“Yeah.”
“And you think that qualifies you to go into a hot zone with me?”
Glenn shrugs. “No offense, but you’re a lawyer. If you can do it, I can do it.”
Sonia tilts her head, expression unreadable. Then she turns away.
“I’m going with or without you,” Glenn adds, following.
“I didn’t say yes.”
“You didn’t say no either.”
Sonia exhales sharply, one hand lifting to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Хоть кол на голове теши,” she mutters under her breath. Then:
“Fuck.”
She unclips the shoulder holster and hands him her sidearm, grip-first.
Glenn freezes. “Seriously?”
“Don’t wet yourself. It’s not a gift.”
He takes it, careful. “It’s… a Glock?”
“Kimber Custom II. Not a toy.”
“Oh. Right.”
She watches him fumble it a bit. “Finger off the trigger.”
He corrects his grip.
Sonia nods, once. “Ever fired one?”
“Yeah, my buddy had a—”
“Fired. Not held.”
“...Once.”
She squints at him. “You’re lucky I like desperate people.”
Glenn offers a weak smile. “Is that what I am?”
“No,” she says. “You’re Grace’s friend.”
That seems to quiet him.
Sonia steps past him, heading for the tent. “Keep up, pizza boy.”
Glenn falls into step beside her, careful not to trip over a root or bump into her bow. He’s quiet at first, watching, absorbing, but after a minute, he speaks up.
“You’re really gonna do this alone?”
“I’m not alone,” she says. “Unfortunately.”
He huffs a laugh. “Right. Forgot. I'm backup now.”
They cross a patch of gravel, boots crunching. Sonia moves like she’s done this a hundred times, which, Glenn’s realizing, maybe she has. She doesn’t check her footing. Doesn’t glance around nervously. She just walks. Eyes forward. Confident.
“So,” he says, after a beat, “what’s your story?”
She flicks him a look. “You think I’ve got time for small talk?”
“No,” Glenn admits. “But I figured I’d try before we get surrounded by geeks and I never get the chance again.”
Sonia’s mouth quirks. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s the first sign of something human.
“My story is: we get there, we find the pharmacy, and we get back before sundown. That’s all that matters.”
Glenn nods. “Cool. Tight. Emotionally distant. I get it.”
She shoots him a sidelong glance. “You always talk this much?”
“Only when I’m nervous.”
“Then shut up,” Sonia mutters, “you’re making me nervous.”
They push through a narrow break in the trees, the woods stretching wide ahead.
They stop near a bent road sign. Sonia crouches behind a guardrail, map balanced across her knee. Her eyes flick over the paper, then sweep the tree line.
“Two more turns,” she says. “Pharmacy should be between a clinic and a dental office.”
Glenn crouches too, holding the Kimber like it might detonate. “You think it hasn’t been hit?”
“Probably has. But it’s a medical plaza, not a CVS. People hit chains first.”
He nods, like that makes sense. “Still think they’ll have insulin?”
“If they had any in the first place and no one knew how to get to it, yeah.” She taps the map. “Places like this usually have coded locks and backup generators. Refrigeration might still be running.”
Glenn squints. “How do you know all that?”
She doesn’t look up. “Had to prep for a trial once. Fake clinic pushing expired meds. I spent three days buried in generator specs and pharmaceutical storage regs.”
Glenn blinks. “Right. Prosecutor.”
Sonia finally glances at him. “What, you think we just shout ‘objection’ and go home?”
He laughs, a little embarrassed. “Kinda, yeah.”
She folds the map and rises. “Stick close. Don’t touch anything unless I say.”
They move on, the silence between them taut, the air starting to hum with tension.
The building rises out of the trees like it doesn’t belong. Glass doors intact, windows unbroken. A single-story strip of concrete and stucco, faded sign above the entrance reading Trinity Pointe Medical Plaza. The pharmacy is the third door in. No signs of looting. No busted windows. No blood.
Jackpot.
Sonia slows her steps, eyes narrowing. The silence is too clean. No scuff marks on the sidewalk. No smashed glass glittering in the sun. Even the trash bins near the curb are upright, undisturbed.
Glenn exhales behind her. “Is it weird that I’m nervous it looks this perfect?”
Sonia doesn’t answer. Just lifts her hand for silence, then gestures toward the side entrance: an emergency access door with a keypad lock, still intact. A sticker on the window reads Cold Storage On Premises — Emergency Generator Equipped.
Jackpot. Again.
She turns to Glenn, mouth pulled in a line. “Stay behind me.”
The doors are locked.
Sonia checks the handle, then leans back. Glass. Standard. Thin. She sighs through her nose, already reaching into her pocket.
The rag she pulls out is stiff now. Dried blood soaked into the fibers, faded from crimson to rust. She wraps it tight around her forearm, ties it off once, twice. Glenn watches, wide-eyed.
Without hesitation, Sonia drives her arm through the glass.
It shatters with a clean, brittle crack. Spiderwebs shoot through the pane, then collapse inward. Shards clatter to the tile floor inside. She doesn’t flinch.
A few small cuts bloom along her skin, but the rag took most of it.
Glenn’s jaw slackens. “Holy shit.”
Sonia just reaches in, unlocks the door, and pushes it open.
The second they step inside:
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
A piercing alarm blares to life.
Sonia doesn’t flinch. She’s already moving, boots skidding on linoleum as she darts past toppled displays and half-stocked shelves.
“Generator’s in the back,” she says.
Glenn blinks and rushes after her. “That’s not normal lawyer knowledge!”
“Neither is this.” She rounds a corner, spots the humming gray box, and slams the emergency kill switch without hesitation.
The alarm cuts off in an instant. Silence floods back in.
Glenn stares at her.
Then: “Oh. Is that all?”
Sonia shoots him a look as she shakes glass from her sleeve. “You want a medal, pizza boy, or are we getting the insulin?”
Glenn heads for the refrigerated cases, guided by the soft hum that’s still fading from the shut-down generator. Sonia veers toward the shelves lining the side wall: bandages, antibiotics, anything not nailed down.
“Think this’ll hold her?” Glenn calls, scanning labels as he starts stuffing vials into a black backpack.
“For a little while,” Sonia answers, crouched low as she checks expiration dates with practiced fingers. “Long enough to buy her time.”
She finds a few blister packs, swipes a bottle of iodine, grabs a crumpled box of syringes.
Glenn glances over. “You think we should leave some behind?”
Sonia pauses. Straightens. Her eyes flick over the still-stocked shelves. It’s tempting. It always is. But…
“Yeah,” she says. “We do this right. Someone else might need it.”
Glenn nods. “Cool. Just didn’t wanna sound like a sap.”
“You are a sap,” she mutters. “But you’re a good one.”
He grins, almost bashful. “You say that like there’s bad ones.”
“There are.” She moves past him, her voice dry. “They don’t leave medicine behind.”
They work in practiced silence for the next few minutes. Sonia finds a padded cooler bag beneath the pharmacy counter, probably meant for transporting vaccines. The lining is still cold. She shoves a few ice packs inside from the still-cool fridge unit and tosses Glenn a nod.
“Load the vials in here. Carefully.”
Glenn transfers the insulin, one by one. He tucks them between the gel packs, arranging them so they won’t clink together.
“They’re not exactly hiker-friendly,” he mutters, zipping the soft cooler shut and sliding the strap over his shoulder. “Feels like I’m babysitting a carton of eggs.”
“Don’t drop it, then.”
Sonia finishes sweeping antiseptic wipes and gauze rolls into her pack. One last glance around.
“Got what we need?”
“I think so.”
“Then let’s move.”
They step out, the bag of insulin slung tight across Glenn’s chest, the weight of it fragile and loud.
They don’t make it ten paces before Sonia freezes.
Glenn nearly bumps into her back. “What?”
She lifts one hand.
Then they hear it.
The slow, dragging crunch of gravel. Wet, irregular. Like meat pulled through grit.
Then the sound: a groan. Low, airless, pulled from somewhere deep and ruined.
Sonia turns her head just enough to glimpse past the pharmacy’s corner.
Four of them.
Not sprinting. Not snarling. Just... coming.
One’s dragging a shattered leg behind it, the shinbone punched clean through, each step a wet scrape of bone on asphalt. Another’s jaw hangs broken, off its hinge, swinging like it wants to speak but can’t. One has hair stuck to its chin, someone else’s scalp, half-chewed and rotting in the teeth. Their eyes are pale, wide, empty. No fury. No speed. Just a slow, silent hunger.
“The alarm,” Glenn breathes. “It brought them.”
His hands tighten on the bag, then relax. Tighten again.
She sees the panic hit him. But he doesn’t freeze. He starts scanning exits. Counting walkers. His knees bend slightly like he’s ready to sprint, even if he doesn't know where to.
Sonia doesn’t answer.
Her hand’s already on her bowstring.
The motion is fluid, too fast to track. One blink and the arrow’s already up from her thigh quiver. Draw. Anchor.
The bow creaks. Quiet. Controlled. The only sign of pressure behind the shot.
Twhip.
The arrow hits the first walker low in the temple. It folds. Just drops. The skull splits wide on impact, sending a chunk of scalp flapping loose, arrowhead punching through into the dirt beneath it.
The others don’t stop.
One stumbles forward and steps on the fallen body, bones crunching audibly beneath its weight like someone biting down on ice.
“Jesus,” Glenn mutters.
His voice is tight, but he doesn’t look away. He shifts back a step, never turning his back, clutching the insulin to his chest like it's a newborn, eyes scanning.
Another arrow. Draw. Release.
Twhip.
It buries into the eye socket of the next one. The skull resists for a bit then gives. The eye pops with a wet squelch, pink matter spraying the walker behind it. The front one goes down like a ragdoll, jerking once as its knees slam the pavement.
Two left.
The third limps forward through the gore-soaked concrete, its feet dragging slick red lines behind it. Its stomach is torn wide, intestines unspooling in wet ropes. A chunk of liver, or what’s left of it, thuds loose with every step, twitching on the asphalt like it’s trying to escape the body it came from.
Sonia draws again.
The shot is smooth. Controlled. Right through the open mouth.
The arrow exits through the spine, spraying blood and a broken molar across the ground like fruit pulp. It should drop.
It doesn’t.
It lurches once, then again, staggering with the shaft jutting from the roof of its mouth, neck muscles twitching like a puppet with severed strings.
She exhales. Adjusts.
Sixty pounds of draw weight isn’t cutting it. The penetration’s soft. Her shafts are holding, but the kills aren’t immediate. She’s going to have to push it up.
Not now.
She reaches for her next arrow.
And then she hears it.
Leaves shift. Gravel crunches.
Two more.
They stagger out of the trees, closer than they should be. One’s in pale blue hospital scrubs, the back shredded wide open, spine slick and glistening. The other is rotting in a tattered wedding dress, veil clinging to her jawless face. The bottom half of her body is half there. What remains of her guts dragging behind like a bridal train soaked in meat.
Glenn jolts.
He doesn’t scream, but his hand flies to the bag. He steps back too fast, trips on the curb. The insulin case slips from his grasp and hits the ground.
Thud.
Glass cracks.
“Shit, shit,” Glenn hisses, scrambling.
“Eyes up!” Sonia barks sharp and clean.
Because the third walker, the one her last arrow missed entirely, is lunging at her from the left.
She draws. Fires.
The arrow rips through the nasal cavity and punches out the back of the skull. Blood spatters across her boot.
It drops at her feet, twitching once before going still.
The fourth is still moving. Just barely.
She pivots, draws, fires.
This one pierces high, nearly through the crown. The walker sags, mouth still working. A second later, it folds in half like something remembered it was dead.
Now, and only now, she turns toward the newcomers.
The one in hospital scrubs makes a gurgling sound as it staggers toward them, arms outstretched, spine fully exposed through the torn fabric of its back. One foot drags like it was snapped sideways then shoved back into a shoe. Each step leaves behind a trail of red-brown sludge: blood, bile, something else.
The bride isn’t walking. She’s sloshing.
Her left heel has worn down to bone, toenails half-gone. The veil’s tangled in what’s left of her scalp, and her lower abdomen is a stringy mess, the hem of the dress dragging half-digested viscera like decorations. Something that might’ve been a kidney bounces off her shin, rolling in her wake like a dropped stone.
Sonia doesn’t hesitate.
Too close for arrows.
She sheathes her bow and rips the machete from her back in one fluid motion. The blade sings out, catching what light there is, just long enough to gleam before it sinks deep into the scrubs walker’s face. The cut splits it at a diagonal, skull shearing like overripe fruit. A burst of blood and brain matter paints her forearm.
The walker drops mid-step, one arm still twitching.
The bride keeps coming.
Behind Sonia, Glenn shuffles back fast, nearly tripping again. His breathing’s ragged, too loud. One hand scrabbles for the insulin case. The other’s up like it might do anything against what’s coming.
The bride hisses.
Her jaw doesn’t move—she doesn’t have one—but sound still slips through her ruined throat. A wet, rattling moan.
Sonia meets her head-on.
She ducks low, blade angled up, and drives it through the soft underside of the bride’s chin. Bone crunches. The machete wedges halfway through the skull before Sonia yanks it free with a slick, wrenching twist. A tooth sticks to the edge of the blade.
The walker folds forward like a broken marionette. Drops.
Silence returns.
Sort of.
Not the peaceful kind, more like the aftermath of a car crash. Blood seeps between sidewalk cracks. The insulin bag lies cracked open, a small pool of fluid spreading beneath it.
Sonia breathes hard. Checks the treeline.
Then Glenn finally speaks. “I think…” He swallows. “I dropped it.”
She doesn’t answer.
Her hand tightens on the machete.
They’re not done yet.
The world doesn’t go quiet. It just shifts.
Crows call from somewhere behind them, stirred by the scent. Wind threads through the trees, cold enough to sting. Sonia’s already moving, machete sliding back into its sheath with a wet scrape. She steps over the twitching body of the first walker she brought down.
Glenn watches as she crouches beside it. Calm, methodical, like this isn’t her first cleanup. Like she’s done it a hundred times already.
She tugs the arrow free. Checks the shaft, fletching, head.
Frowning, she wipes blood from the broadhead and holds it up to the light. Bent.
She grunts softly, tosses it into her pouch, and moves on.
The next arrow is lodged behind an eye socket. This one comes out clean. She slides it back into her thigh quiver with a practiced flick.
By the time she’s yanking the third from the roof of a partially shattered skull, Glenn’s mouth opens.
“You’re not just a lawyer,” he says.
It’s not a question. Not really.
Sonia doesn’t look at him. She runs her thumb along the shaft of her arrow, checking for hairline cracks. “Did I say I was?”
“No, but…” He hesitates, then huffs once. “You skin rabbits like a surgeon and kill like… like that…” he gestures at the mangled corpses. “I’ve seen war movies with less blood.”
Sonia gives a noncommittal sound. Not quite a laugh. “Must’ve been bad movies.”
Glenn exhales shakily, then glances toward the shattered insulin bag.
Neither of them says it.
They lost the medicine.
And the sun is starting to set.
Sonia’s still crouched, blood on her hands, fingers ghosting the frayed edge of her fletching. The arrow’s fine. The body it came from is not.
Behind her, Glenn shifts awkwardly, tight with guilt. His eyes dart to the insulin bag, one of the vials cracked clean through, its contents glistening on the pavement like mercury in the dirt.
“…That’s on me,” he says, voice low. “I dropped it.”
Sonia rises, slow and steady. She wipes her palms on her pants, smearing red across the fabric. Her mouth presses flat. Not angry, just tired.
“It hit the ground,” she says. “That’s all.”
“I should’ve…”
“No,” she cuts in. Not harsh. Final.
He shuts up.
She looks at him then. His hands are shaking slightly. His breathing’s still too fast, his eyes rimmed with something sharp. But he didn’t run. He didn’t scream. And he’s still here.
“You stayed,” she says.
Glenn blinks. “What?”
“You didn’t bolt. You stayed behind me. You listened.”
“I dropped the damn insulin.”
“Yeah,” she nods. “But next time, you won’t.”
His jaw ticks, like he wants to argue.
She doesn’t let him. “You did good, Glenn.”
The way his name sounds in her mouth—grounded, certain—startles him into silence. He stares at her, some protest dying halfway up his throat.
Sonia picks up the bag, now damp and useless, and tucks it under her arm anyway.
“We’ll find more.”
“Yeah?” he asks, not believing it.
“No,” she says. “But we’ll try.”
And then she walks.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Clark
Clark realized it as soon as he got home that night.
He wasn’t firing on all cylinders after the fiasco at the mayor-elect’s celebration. Being stuck like that, unable to do anything or help anybody without revealing his secret identity, was basically his worst nightmare.
He’d spent the whole way home pissed at Batman, wondering why he’d taken so long to arrive at an ongoing hostage situation involving some of the wealthiest people in Gotham. Wondering why Batman had sent Robin in first. It didn’t make any sense.
And then there was Bruce Wayne, who had seemed hell-bent on putting himself in danger for no reason, who’d ended up with a nasty bruise on his face and could have ended up with much worse – like a bullet in his brain – because he couldn’t just
listen
to Clark and stay put on the balcony.
It all made sense when Clark caught a glimpse of his reflection. Bruce had made that comment about him and Clark having similar injuries, but it hadn’t registered with Clark at the time. He’d been too relieved to see Bruce alive.
Clark did have a bruise on his face. And it looked exactly like Bruce Wayne’s.
That was what had taken Batman so long. He’d been there the whole time, but like Clark, he couldn’t reveal his secret identity. And that was why Bruce Wayne had been so eager to get off that balcony.
Bruce Wayne was Batman. Batman was Bruce Wayne. And they were both Clark’s soulmate.
Even with all the evidence laid out before him, Clark still found it hard to believe. Batman and Bruce were so different. Bruce was friendly and charming and had gone out of his way to talk to Clark every time they saw each other. Batman was withdrawn and hypercritical and had taken years to open up even a little. How could they both be the same person? Which version was the real him?
As if things weren’t complicated enough, Clark now knew that he’d turned down his soulmate. He’d done it for the right reasons, but Bruce didn’t know that, because Clark hadn’t had a chance to explain.
Would Bruce get home and realize Clark was his soulmate? He had to. He might even go one step farther and make the connection that Clark was Superman. He must have noticed that he’d never had a lasting injury from his soulmate. Combine that with the fact that Superman had shown up conveniently to save the day, and it must have been obvious, especially to someone like Batman.
Clark didn’t know what to do. Should he fly back to Gotham and confront Batman? Should he try to contact Bruce Wayne? Should he wait until tomorrow?
Just as Clark was debating this, his phone started buzzing. Lois was calling him. Perfect timing, Clark thought; he could use an outsider’s perspective on this one.
“Hello?”
“I saw what happened in Gotham,” Lois said, sounding concerned. “Are you alright? Is everyone there alright?”
“Everyone’s fine,” Clark reassured her. “The police took the perpetrators away and there were no casualties. But… something else happened.”
“What?”
“I found out his secret identity.”
Clark didn’t need to specify who “he” was. Lois knew right away. “He told you? Or you figured it out?”
“I figured it out.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“I think I have to.”
“How do you think he’ll react?”
That was the million-dollar question. “I’m going to have to reveal that we’re soulmates,” Clark said. “That’s how I figured it out.”
“Maybe it’s time you told him that anyway,” Lois reasoned.
She was right. Lois was usually right. “Do you think I should talk to him tonight? Or wait until tomorrow?”
“Wait until tomorrow,” Lois advised. “Give yourself the rest of the night off. You deserve it.”
“I still have to finish writing about tonight.” Perry had called Clark as soon as the hostage situation was over asking for a firsthand report, due by the morning.
“Send me your rough draft. I’ll clean it up for you and get it to Perry,” Lois said.
Clark felt a rush of gratitude. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. Just answer one question for me.”
“What?”
Clark heard the smile in Lois’ voice. “Is he attractive?”
Clark laughed. “Yeah. He is.”
“How attractive? Scale of one to ten.”
“Ten. Easily a ten.”
“Well,” Lois said, “That’s something.”
“It is something, isn’t it?”
The next day was a Saturday, so Clark didn’t have to worry about going into work. He flew to Gotham in the early afternoon, heading straight for Wayne Manor.
The gates to the Manor were closed, so Clark stood outside and rang the intercom.
“Wayne residence,” a British-accented voice said.
“This is Clark Kent, here to see Bruce Wayne,” Clark said tentatively. He was nervous. He didn’t know what was waiting for him inside. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
“I’m sorry, Master Bruce isn’t expecting anyone today.”
“I know. But is there any way you can tell him I’m here to see him? It’s about what happened last night.”
There was a pause that stretched out for minutes before the gates opened and the British voice returned. “Come in.”
Clark walked up the gravel driveway to the front door. By the time he reached it, a well-dressed older man – the apparent owner of the voice Clark had heard over the intercom – had opened it and was beckoning Clark inside.
“Welcome, Master Clark,” the man said. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”
“We haven’t,” Clark replied. “Clark Kent. I work for the
Daily Planet
. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Alfred Pennyworth. Master Bruce is waiting for you in the study.”
Alfred led Clark down the front hall, past numerous rooms, and to the back of the house, where he knocked on a heavy wooden door and said, “Master Bruce. Master Clark here to see you.”
“Come on in,” Bruce called out. “Thank you, Alfred.”
Another reason Clark hadn’t ever connected Bruce Wayne to Batman: Their voices were different. Bruce’s natural voice was somewhat low and smooth, whereas the voice he put on as Batman was much lower and gravelly. Now that Clark knew they were the same person, he could hear the similarities, but he wouldn’t have put it together before.
Alfred and Clark stepped into the study. Bruce was sitting at a tall mahogany desk, dressed more formally than Clark would have expected from anyone at home alone on a Saturday, in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves cuffed. He motioned for Clark to take a seat in a leather armchair across from him.
“Can I get either of you something to drink?” Alfred offered.
“I’m fine,” Clark said, not wanting to impose.
“So am I,” said Bruce.
“Let me know if either of you change your mind.” Alfred left and closed the door behind him, leaving Clark and Bruce alone.
Bruce turned his gaze on Clark, eyes sharp. “What on earth are you doing here?” he asked.
“I need to talk to you about something,” Clark began. “It couldn’t wait until the next time we happened to run into each other.”
“I’m listening.”
Where to begin? Clark had stayed up all night thinking about what he was going to say and how he was going to say it, but now that he was sitting here, looking at Bruce Wayne and knowing that that meant he was also looking at Batman, he found himself at a complete loss for words. So he skipped all the preamble, and very straightforwardly said, “I know you’re Batman.”
Clark didn’t catch more than a flash of momentary surprise from Bruce, and that told Clark everything he needed to know. Namely, that he wasn’t the only one who’d figured out someone’s secret identity last night.
Sure enough: “I know you’re Superman,” Bruce countered.
“How did you figure it out?”
Bruce scoffed. He was looking and sounding a lot more like Batman now, to the point where Clark had a hard time believing he’d never seen it. “You ‘happened to be in the area’?” he said, quoting Clark. “Please. One minute you’re running off toward danger, the next minute Superman shows up and saves the day. I assume you found out the same way.”
“Sort of,” Clark admitted. “That’s actually the other thing I needed to talk to you about. You noticed we had matching injuries that night. You got pistol-whipped in the head, it looked like—”
“It was an assault rifle,” Bruce corrected him. “Not a pistol.”
Clark fought to keep from rolling his eyes. Of course Bruce would choose now to be pedantic. “The mechanics of hitting you in the head with it are the same. Either way, you ended up with that on your forehead, and you saw that I had the same one.” Clark motioned to the purplish bruise on Bruce’s face, which he hadn’t bothered to cover up.
Clark had. He’d learned how to use concealer to cover up his soulmate’s injuries back in high school; Lana had taught him. Ever since then, he’d made a habit of it. He didn’t want to worry people in his day-to-day life with all the bruises that showed up on him, and as Superman it was important for him to present an impenetrable image, which visible injuries would detract from.
“I noticed you’ve covered it up,” Bruce noted, thinking along the same lines as Clark. “Is that why I’ve never seen one on you before?”
“I’ve gotten pretty good at it. I have a lot of practice,” Clark said. “You get hit in the face a lot.”
“How long have you known?”
“I started figuring it out about a year ago.”
Bruce nodded. “You did have a lot more clues to work with than I did.”
Clark was surprised. He’d expected Bruce to be angry or upset when he learned how long Clark had kept this secret from him. “I have to admit, this isn’t the reaction I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I at least expected some yelling.”
“I can yell at you if that’s what you want,” Bruce offered. “But I’ve had time to accept the fact that we are, apparently, soulmates.”
He’d had time? How? How had he figured it out earlier than last night? “I didn’t think I had ever been injured long enough for you to notice,” Clark said, hoping for some explanation.
“For a long time you weren’t. I spent most of my life thinking I didn’t have a soulmate.” Bruce said this without a trace of emotion, like he couldn’t care less whether or not he had a soulmate. Clark wondered if that was true. “But the timing happened to line up perfectly, and I caught what I have to assume was you getting shot with another Kryptonite bullet when you went back to Luthor’s warehouses.”
That
explained Batman’s sudden change of behavior. Batman had been so upset to learn Superman was his soulmate that he’d no longer wanted to be around him. It hurt, but honestly, Clark couldn’t hold it against him. He’d been similarly upset to learn that Batman was his soulmate. They just seemed so wrong for each other.
At least, that’s what Clark used to think. But the longer he’d sat with the knowledge, the more it had started to make sense. He and Batman had always made a great team. They balanced each other out. They’d understood each other, even before they’d liked each other.
And learning Batman was Bruce Wayne made it make even more sense. Clark had felt an instant attraction to Bruce, and it seemed like Bruce had felt the same way about him. They hadn’t been able to stay away from each other.
Clearly they were soulmates for a reason. These things didn’t happen by mistake. But would Bruce see it the same way?
Bruce
Bruce was used to being tired. He could function for weeks or months on just a few hours of sleep every night. But something about the night before – the stress, the lack of sleep, and of course, the startling revelation that had rounded out his already unpleasant evening – had him feeling especially drained.
After the mayor-elect’s celebration-turned-hostage situation, Bruce had gone home, told Dick he was grounded from hero work for a month, and then gone back out into the night, even though he was exhausted, because he couldn’t stand the idea of trying to sleep. He knew he would either spend the whole night lying awake thinking about the fact that Clark Kent was Superman, and Superman was his soulmate, and trying to figure out how he felt about it and what he was going to do, or he would somehow manage to drift off and have nightmares about Dick getting shot.
When he got home from fighting crime, Bruce managed to catch a couple hours of fitful rest, and he did dream about Dick dying, and he also dreamed about his parents dying, because Clark accidentally mentioning them had brought Bruce’s traumatic memories of their deaths to the forefront of his mind. Surprisingly, he also dreamed about Clark dying, except his unconscious mind couldn’t keep Clark Kent and Superman straight and kept blurring between the two.
Oh, and his face hurt.
So Bruce was sitting here in front of Clark – in front of Superman – talking about the fact that they were soulmates, on his third cup of coffee, and the only reason he didn’t look visibly exhausted was because he had bruises all over his face that conveniently hid the dark circles under his eyes.
He wasn’t having a good day.
“Why didn’t you say anything to me when you realized?” Clark was asking him.
Bruce sighed. At least this question had an easy answer. “Like you said, I get injured frequently. If by some miracle you hadn’t already figured out that I’m your soulmate, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell you. And if you had, then you were keeping it to yourself, which I thought was the best decision you’ve ever made.”
Bruce assumed Clark had kept the information that Batman was his soulmate to himself, firstly, to preserve their professional relationship. He hadn’t wanted to do anything that would negatively affect their teamwork. Bruce thought that was very wise of him, actually. He had always believed that the safety of Gotham and of the world should come first, before his own personal feelings and relationships.
But Clark also probably kept it to himself because, well, he wasn’t interested in Batman, or in Bruce. There was no other way to put it. As guilty as Clark seemed to feel about turning Bruce down, he’d still done it, and that was all that mattered. Bruce didn’t need excuses. A no was a no, and he would respect it and move on. Even if they were soulmates.
Bruce had lived this long without a soulmate. He could live the rest of his life without one, for all he cared.
“Why didn’t
you
say anything?” Bruce asked, wondering if Clark would confirm his suspicions.
“I didn’t think you would believe me,” Clark said. “I didn’t think you’d want to.”
Clark was mostly right about that. The realization that Superman was his soulmate had been a difficult one for Bruce to accept. He’d long ago adjusted to the idea that he wasn’t destined for a lifelong romantic relationship the way some people were. Having that reality turned on its head over the space of mere minutes, and then learning that the person he was apparently destined to be with was perhaps the one person in the world with whom he had the most complicated, most fraught, and most confusing relationship… It was a lot to take in.
Bruce no longer disliked Superman. He’d even mostly accepted that he cared about Superman. But learning that Superman was his soulmate had unlocked a Pandora’s box of emotions that Bruce didn’t feel prepared to reckon with.
It was the reason he’d canceled his and Superman’s training sessions, at least until Bruce had a chance to come to terms with the truth. He couldn’t handle being in such close quarters with Superman for an extended length of time. The idea of it had made him feel… emotionally compromised.
“I was surprised when I made the discovery,” Bruce admitted. “But it doesn’t actually change anything. I’m not interested in having a soulmate.”
Clark looked skeptical. “You asked me out,” he said.
Yes, and you turned me down.
But Bruce wasn’t going to say that. Instead, he said, “That was before I knew who you were, or that you were my soulmate.”
“So you were only interested when you thought I was just Clark Kent, ordinary reporter,” Clark surmised. “Now that you know I’m also Superman, you’re no longer interested.”
It wasn’t exactly the truth. Bruce had been interested to see where things went with Clark Kent, ordinary reporter, but he hadn’t been expecting it to last or turn into any kind of serious relationship. As for how he felt about Superman… he wasn’t going to think about it. That Pandora’s box should have stayed closed.
And now that he knew they were the same person, it didn’t matter how Bruce felt, because he knew Clark – Superman – wasn’t interested.
“I don’t know why you’re offended,” Bruce said. “You said no. You weren’t interested either way.”
“So you’re suggesting we do nothing and act like this never happened?”
Clark said this like he thought it was a crazy idea, but Bruce didn’t see anything wrong with it. “I’m content with our relationship as it is. Why mess with something that works? Wasn’t that your thinking when you decided not to tell me?”
“More or less.” Clark sounded almost reluctant to admit it.
“Like I said, best decision you’ve ever made.”
“What are we going to do about the fact that we now know each other’s secret identities?” Clark asked.
“Nothing,” Bruce said. Why was Clark so hung up on the idea of them
doing
something? The status quo was working just fine.
“Are you going to tell Dick? I have to assume he’s Robin.”
“You assume correctly. And I’m not going to tell him who you are. I won’t tell Alfred either.” Even back when he still disliked Superman, Bruce never would have done anything to compromise Superman’s secret identity. That was a step too far for any self-respecting superhero.
“Who is he, by the way?” Clark said, referring to Alfred.
“My butler, officially,” Bruce explained. “But he raised me.”
Clark nodded his understanding. “I won’t tell anyone either,” he said. “Obviously.”
“I trust you,” Bruce said. He knew what it meant to Clark to hear that. He’d seen it during their conversation at their last training session. However Clark felt about him – whether he thought of Batman as a soulmate or a friend or just a colleague – he clearly valued Batman’s trust. Maybe that was why Bruce felt like he could give it to him.
And he wanted Clark to know that, even though he wasn’t interested in having a soulmate, and even though he knew Clark wasn’t interested in having him as a soulmate, their professional relationship – friendship, Bruce might even go so far as to call it, though he would have to give the idea some thought before committing to it – was still strong.
“I can’t talk all afternoon,” Bruce said, cutting off their conversation. “Dick’s probably going to wake up soon, and I still don’t think I’ve made it clear to him exactly how much trouble he’s in.”
“That was really dangerous, what he did last night,” Clark agreed. “If you need someone else to talk to him for you, I’m more than willing to help out.”
Dick did seem to value Superman’s opinion. Maybe Bruce would take Clark up on that offer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As an afterthought – because he really didn’t want all this to impact his and Clark’s professional relationship, as much as he tried to act like he didn’t care – Bruce added, “We should resume our training sessions, now that the election is over. The police are going to be interrogating the men they brought in last night, and Commissioner Gordon is optimistic that they’ll get at least one of them to testify against the mayor in exchange for a reduced sentence.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Clark said sincerely. “I’ve missed training with you.”
Bruce walked Clark to the front door and saw him out, and then he went to the kitchen, where he found Alfred making breakfast for Dick, who still hadn’t come downstairs yet. He was probably awake by now and stalling, in no rush to face the consequences of his actions.
“Who was he?” Alfred asked Bruce, carefully casual, though Bruce knew him well enough to know that it wasn’t a casual question.
“A friend from work,” Bruce said. He sat down at the kitchen table and Alfred offered him a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast. Bruce turned it down. He wasn’t hungry. He never was after a night with no sleep.
“Just a friend?” Alfred asked, leaving the plate in front of Bruce just in case he changed his mind.
“Yes,” Bruce answered firmly.
Alfred didn’t look convinced.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
On his way to Pyke, Theon Greyjoy found little comfort.
A few days after defeating Lannisters that were besieging Riverrun, King Robb tasked his best friend with a very important mission. He was supposed to return to the Iron Islands, to negotiate with his father so that he’ll join the North and use his fleet to besiege Casterly Rock by sea. Only through that they can ensure the defeat of Lord Tywin, and the revenge for Ned Stark. As for Theon himself, he was thrilled to return home, to meet his family again…
But one thing was constantly distracting him while he was aboard. The one he unwittingly created.
When he first parted with Mallisters and joined the crew of “Myraham” in Seagard, the captain who greeted him and his daughter had a fairly tame relationship. But by the time they left the harbor, that old man was constantly groping and kissing his girl, with them eventually both moving to captain’s cabin and nearly forgetting their duties. Seven or nine times a day (depending on the weather), everyone on the ship heard daughter screaming in joy, a sound that was even louder than the waves sometimes!
And that drove Theon crazy. The fact he had no family member to share his love with, at least not until he returns home.
Although his cabin was reasonably cozy, most nights he could barely sleep with all of these father-daughter fucking noises. That very day, however, after few hours of counting krakens and sea dragons his eyes closed, and his mind drifted to what he wanted the most.
His mother.
Heir of the Iron Islands was in his father's castle once again, his head placed on her lap. He looked up and noticed her teats… They were bigger than he remembered, definitely being thrice the size of her head. Lady Alannys noticed that and freed them from her gown, which instantly made her son hard. He released himself from her clutches and started sucking on her breasts, like he did as a babe, and soon after both Greyjoys were finally ready.
Once he finished feasting on his mother's nipples, Lady Greyjoy went on her knees and pulled down his pants, gasping.
“Oh Theon, you’re so much bigger than Rodrik and Maron!” she said, giving the exact needed compliment for him. Theon knew that both of his now deceased older brother could never ever give the same amount of pleasure he would once he finds her on the islands, and considered himself lucky to be the only one husband-son candidate at this point.
Then she took her son’s cock into her mouth, and he had such a strong feeling of joy he came immediately.
While Lady Alannys was disrobing and changing positions to offer her son another hole, Theon looked across their bedchambers, which was once his before Greyjoy’s Rebellion. In the doorframe that connected it to the rest of the castle, he saw another woman, and that got him thinking…
How does Asha look now? The day he was forced to leave Pyke to become Lord Stark's ward, she was pimply and not particularly attractive. But, mayhaps her appearance changed as she grew up, and maybe her teats are just as big as their mother's...
Just thinking about her instantly woke him up. And despite captain and his daughter still moaning from nearly all directions (or so it seemed), he felt strangely calm. Now he knew it’s not only Lady Greyjoy he would be having fun with at home, but probably his sister as well.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
10 April 1977
Regulus was quietly observing the crowd in the Three Broomsticks, idly sipping at his butterbeer while his friends chatted around him. They were all tucked into a booth in the back corner of the room. It was a Hogsmeade weekend and they were all glad to be out of the castle for the day.
The black-haired boy turned his attention to Barty, who was slouched over the table with his forehead pressed to the wood. The other boy had been hardcore studying for his O.W.L.s and running on very few hours of sleep, even with the time turner helping him along the way. It was no wonder the poor boy’s brain was all but melting onto the table.
“Poor thing, he’s so exhausted,” Evan murmured from Barty’s other side, a worried look on his face. “Twelve O.W.L.s is killing him. He barely comes to bed most nights.”
“I still think he’s mad,” Dorcas said, resting her chin on her knuckles. “Even just half that was hard enough for me.”
“The things we do to please our fathers,” Regulus murmured, sighing softly. “At this point, killing ourselves may be the only way to make them proud.”
“Well, it’s a good thing we don’t care about our fathers then, isn’t it?” Pandora asked cheerily, smiling brightly. Despite her happy demeanor, Regulus could see the worry lines around her eyes, the beginnings of dark circles. The poor girl was getting lost in her visions again and there was very little any of them could do about them.
He was still trying to figure out who or what was supposed to be the sun he needed to follow.
The doors to the tavern opened up and in walked Lucius Malfoy, instantly drawing Regulus’s attention. He tensed ever so slightly as the older man spotted him and then beckoned him over. He quickly downed the rest of his butterbeer and then got up from the booth. He made his way across the room and sat opposite Lucius at a tucked away table.
“Lucius,” Regulus greeted quietly, mask carefully in place. His cousin’s fiance was deeply entrenched with Voldemort, knew the older man had taken the Mark over a year ago now. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s more like what I’m here to do for you,” the blond man told him. He pulled a handbound leather book from inside his cloak and set it on the table between them. The leather was aged and well-worn but otherwise there was nothing of note, save for the silver snake on the spine.
“This… This is the Gaunt Grimoire,” the younger said, surprised. “I thought this was in the Potter vault, how did you get this?”
“The Dark Lord gave it to me as a gift to you,” Lucius told him quietly, keeping his voice low. “You’re to study it and show him what you’ve learned this summer.”
“I see,” Regulus replied, carefully picking up the book. He could feel the magic held within the vellum and leather. The Gaunt family was an old one and the evidence was contained right there in one book.
“This is quite the unique opportunity you’ve been given, Regulus,” the older wizard said. “He doesn’t take just anyone under his wing. He clearly sees something in you so don’t waste this opportunity.”
“I understand,” the teenager told him. He tore his gaze away from the book to look at Lucius and saw the jealousy lurking there. He smirked and tilted his chin up. Despite all that Lucius had done in Voldemort’s name, the older man was seething that the dark wizard had chosen a 16-year-old boy.
Nevermind that Regulus had never wanted this but it did give him a sense of power, a sense of having the upperhand in his family and pureblood society. A lesser man would get drunk on this type of power but not him. He had something far better than power.
He stood up from the table and tucked the book inside of his own cloak.
“Say hello to Cissy for me, will you?”
And like that, he returned to his friends without waiting for the older man to dismiss him. Another demonstration of the power he held in his fingertips not only as the heir to the House of Black but also as Voldemort’s chosen protege.
-
“Why do you always come up here to brood?” Barty asked, walking over to the railing and leaning on it.
“When I was small, and I had realized that the monsters were down the stairs instead of under my bed,” Regulus started quietly, not tearing his gaze away from the night sky. “Sirius would take me out onto the roof to look at the stars.”
“And this is as close as you can get,” the other boy deduced, nodding his head. “Well, what’s on your mind then? I’m your best mate, you can lay it on me.”
Regulus sighed softly and finally looked over at Barty. Despite the boy’s earlier nap at the Three Broomsticks, he still looked downright exhausted. He couldn’t wait for their O.W.L.s to be over with just so the other boy would start taking proper care of himself again. Evan could only do so much while studying for his own exams.
“Voldemort has chosen me as his… his apprentice, I suppose is the word for it. He’s given me the Gaunt Grimoire and expects me to learn from it, show him what I’m capable of,” the black-haired boy explained quietly.
“Well that’s good, isn’t it? One step closer to infiltrating his inner circle,” Barty said, quirking an eyebrow. “What’s the issue?”
“James. He’s so… He’s so bright, Barty, and I taint everything I touch with my darkness.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? I’m going to be so entrenched in the Dark Arts when this is all over…” Regulus trailed off, looking away again. “Maybe I should step away before he and I are in too deep.”
“Can you do that?” Barty asked softly.
“I’ve been putting my own happiness aside since the day I was born. I should be a master at it by now.”
“Regs, I am all for self-preservation but nothing and no one could tear me away from Evan,” the taller boy told him firmly. “Don’t let this war tear you away from Potter.”
“I doubt I’ll have a choice. James will inevitably leave me after I take the Mark and he won’t listen to my excuses for it,” Regulus murmured with a sigh. “I want to be selfish, Barty, believe me, I do, but if I wait, I won’t be able to let him go.”
“And we need to focus on the plan,” Barty said, filling in what Regulus had left out. “Alright, I understand. But Dora won’t.”
“I know.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
As the soft dawn light filters through your window, a sense of anticipation begins to stir in your chest. Today marks the start of an adventure—a mission with your group of friends and mentor, Rengoku. However, they remain unaware of your plans. You slip out of bed, eager to embark on the day's journey. The first task of the day is getting ready. You swiftly don your uniform, ensuring everything is neatly in place and all buttons are fastened.
Your gaze shifts to where your sword rests on the dresser, and you approach it with a deliberate pace.
While you've wielded a sword before, during your first solo mission, it wasn't the same sword you now possess—your own personal Nichirin blade. That mission had required you to use a different blade, likely due to your unusual reaction to your own personal sword upon first touch. Whether you'd react similarly to another sword was uncertain, but you figure that the Corps had opted to give you a different one, deeming it the safest option, especially since it wasn't crafted from the unique material you had unwittingly chosen when Mitsuri had you select a stone for your blade's forging.
Now, standing before your own sword, a mix of apprehension and intrigue fills you. The blade beckons, its presence stirring curiosity and a hint of uncertainty within you. You reach out, fingertips grazing the smooth surface, ready to reconnect with this weapon that feels somehow intimately tied to your destiny. Thankfully, nothing unusual happens as you handle the sword, but a lingering sense of curiosity remains as you secure it in the scabbard at your side.
After a final check in the mirror to ensure everything is in place, you're ready to join your friends.
Silently, you slip out the door, making your way through the halls and follow the soft voices carrying in from the outside. You quickly round a corner and peek outside, watching the group stand around, appearing to be preparing to leave. You're elated to find out that you hadn't missed them, giving you the opportunity to secretly follow behind and join them on this new mission. You wonder what exactly this mission will entail; if you'll have to fight a single demon, or even multiple ones, considering Rengoku had decided to recruit your companions. The thought of facing not only one, but possibly multiple demons, did leave you feeling a bit apprehensive—ice running through your veins, sending a chill down your spine. However, you're determined to embark on this mission and fight alongside your companions. With them by your side, you're more than certain that the mission can be completed without any trouble.
Your ears suddenly perk. You listen intently to their conversation, catching your name being mentioned.
"Do you think Y/n-chan will be upset when she finds out that we're gone?"
Zenitsu's voice carries a tinge of worry.
Tanjiro offers a weak smile.
"I imagine so, but it's probably for the best that she stays here. This mission sounds complicated and dangerous. I'll feel better knowing that she's safe here."
"I guess you're right,"
Zenitsu sighs, shouldering a bag.
"I just hope we make it back, or she'll really be upset. I'll never forget the way she looked when we came back from our last mission."
Inosuke smacks Zenitsu's head and asserts,
"Shut up! It's not like we're gonna die! I never lose, remember? We'll be back in no time!"
Zenitsu rubbed his head, grumbling about Inosuke's behavior before veering off to complain about the mission ahead. He wasn't particularly looking forward to searching for a demon lurking around a town, killing and devouring multiple people. They had been briefed earlier about the details of the mission, and from what was gathered, they would be dealing with a stealthy and relatively powerful demon, and potentially more than one. Rengoku then interrupted, his expression serious as he announced the time for departure. They all nodded, gathering their gear and setting off. You stealthily followed behind, keeping to the side of the road and using natural cover like trees, bushes, and rocks.
As you set off on the long journey ahead, the world seemed to slow down around you. The crisp morning air invigorated you, and the colorful display of the sky heightened your excitement. Your heart beat rapidly in anticipation of the day's adventure. However, you were aware that with a mission on the horizon, things could quickly turn sour. After all, your objective was to locate and eliminate a demon (or possibly more) responsible for the recent disappearances of multiple people. You choose not to dwell on such distressing thoughts, opting instead to focus on the present moment of tranquility.
There would be ample time to concern yourself with the mission upon reaching your destination.
The gentle patter of your boots against the soft dirt creates a soothing rhythm, harmonizing with the distant sounds of nature. As you journey farther from the Butterfly Mansion, the landscape unfurls like a living painting before you. Rolling hills adorned with vibrant green rice paddies stretch toward the horizon, while majestic mountains loom in the distance, often veiled in wisps of mist atop their peaks. Each step you take draws you nearer to nature's embrace, filling your lungs with the pure, invigorating air of the countryside. You relished being out here. Although the Butterfly Mansion wasn't bustling like a city, its sizable structure housed a large community of people, and you were constantly surrounded by activity. Being in this serene environment felt like a genuine breath of fresh air.
You were starting to feel bored and restless staying at the mansion, so a mission to prove yourself further was just what you needed.
As the hours passed and the sun climbed higher in the sky, the group's pace remained steady. Rengoku, always the picture of confidence, led with purpose, his every movement deliberate and efficient. The path meandered through a patchwork of farmland, where farmers toiled in the fields, their rhythmic labor adding a comforting backdrop to your journey. Occasionally, you caught glimpses of villagers going about their daily lives, exchanging friendly waves to your companions as you passed by. It was a stark contrast to the dark and dangerous world of demons that awaited you, a reminder of the simple joys and struggles of ordinary people.
As midday approached, the group paused by a clear, babbling stream for a brief rest and meal break. The soothing sound of water flowing over smooth stones provided a peaceful interlude, allowing everyone to recharge before continuing on. Rengoku took the opportunity to impart some wisdom, sharing stories of past missions and offering advice on how to approach the upcoming challenge. The afternoon sun bathed the landscape in a warm golden glow as you resumed your journey. Shadows grew longer, and the air took on a faint chill as evening approached. The anticipation in the group was palpable now, each member mentally preparing for the confrontation with the demon(s) that awaited them.
As night fell and the stars emerged overhead, you finally reached the outskirts of the area where the recent disappearances had occurred. The atmosphere grew tense, the familiar sounds of nature giving way to an eerie silence. Rengoku signaled for everyone to halt, his senses attuned to any signs of danger. Miraculously, you still hadn't been caught following your companions to aid in the mission. You crouched low, blending into the darkness as you scanned the surroundings for any unusual movement or sounds. The mission was about to begin in earnest, and the adrenaline coursing through your veins drowned out any previous lingering thoughts.
This was what you trained for, what you lived for—the thrill of the hunt, the battle against darkness, and the chance to prove yourself among the ranks of the Demon Slayers. To stay by your friends' sides until your very last breath.
No one or thing was going to stop you from doing so.
Everyone cautiously walked around, looking for any clues, but they came up empty-handed, and no one seemed to detect the presence of any demons. Rengoku continued leading the group to the town that was just barely visible in the distance. The blanket of night shrouded the land in darkness, but the lights emitting from the town were bright, a beacon that called to your group. You trailed behind them once again, becoming a bit too relaxed, which you should have been more careful about. You tripped over a stray log, falling onto your hands and knees, your skin scraping against the ground.
You let out a curse far too loud and belatedly realized your mistake.
"Shit..!"
You quickly tried to get back up and shuffle away, but it was too late—you'd blown your cover and were caught.
The unmistakably bright and fiery haori of Rengoku came into view, and you tilted your head back to gaze up at the man with a sheepish smile. He didn't look mad, nor even surprised, but the fact that he had virtually no expression left you feeling oddly intimidated, more so than usual. He always had that effect on you, but this was totally different. You questioned whether you should say anything, but it's not like it would change anything. You had disregarded Rengoku's decision. But it's not like he knew that you knew about the mission because you snuck around and eavesdropped on his conversation with Shinobu the previous night.
However, he was a highly intelligent and perceptive man, so he had to have an inkling as to what you were doing out here.
Rengoku towered over you, his figure outlined by the glow of distant lights. His expression remained stoic, but after a few tense moments of pure silence, there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he looked down at you and extended his hand. You accepted his hand gratefully, feeling a surge of embarrassment at your clumsiness and being caught. The rest of the group meandered over, their various expressions a mixture of shock and pleased amusement at the scene unfolding before them.
"Sorry, Rengoku-san,"
you mumbled, dusting off your clothes as you regained your footing.
"I just... I overheard you the other night and I couldn't stay behind. I had to come!"
Rengoku regarded you with a mixture of amusement and understanding.
"I figured as much,"
he replied in his deep, resonant voice.
"Your determination is admirable, but remember the importance of following orders and staying safe. We're facing unknown dangers tonight."
You nodded, chastened yet grateful for his leniency.
"I understand, Rengoku-san. I won't let my eagerness or stubbornness cloud my judgment; I'll be careful! This is what I've been training for, after all."
He gave a pensive smile, his haori billowing slightly in the night breeze.
"That is true, however, as true as that may be... you must understand why I made my initial decision."
"I do, believe me..."
you fidgeted nervously, your confidence wavering.
"I'm well aware of my lack of experience or skills. But I need to do these things to improve!"
Your voice grew stronger alongside your determination, ready to prove yourself once again.
"I can't remain stagnant—I have to keep moving forward, no matter how difficult it may be."
Rengoku's expression softened, his eyes reflecting a glimmer of respect for your resolve.
"You have a fire within you,"
he observed,
"a determination that is commendable. But remember, growth comes not just from pushing forward blindly, but also from learning to balance that drive with wisdom and caution."
His words struck a chord within you, reminding you of the importance of humility and patience on your journey as not only a Demon Slayer, but as a person.
"I'll keep that in mind,"
you promised.
With a nod of acknowledgment, Rengoku turned his attention back to the task at hand.
"Let's proceed,"
he said, leading the group forward with a steady stride.
The trio immediately gravitated toward you, sticking by your side as you all followed a few paces behind Rengoku.
"Wow, so you knew about the mission and that Rengoku-san wanted you to stay, but you still went for it, huh?"
Tanjiro commented, his tone a blend of admiration and concern.
"Yeah, it was a bit reckless... but I had to come with you all."
"I-I can't believe you actually snuck along,"
Zenitsu muttered, his nervous energy palpable.
"I had no idea you were behind us this entire time!"
You smiled a little, chuckling.
"Really? Well, that's good! I guess it means I'm good at being stealthy. But, y'know... I don't think Rengoku-san was totally unaware of me following you guys."
"You think he knew and didn't say anything about it or try to stop you?"
Tanjiro pondered.
You nodded.
"I mean, he's a Hashira. Since my first mission, I've come to realize that they are on a whole other level. For example, Tomioka-san totally saved me from cracking my skull open during my first mission! I knew he was observing me from a distance, but I found a cave and went inside because that's where some missing children were being kept. I thought he would've lost track of me; but he appeared so fast and grabbed my ankle before I could fall down the hole I made in the roof of the cave!"
You grimaced at the memory. If you had fallen and severely injured yourself while trying to rescue those children, it surely would've left a long-lasting impression on them, and not a good one. Luckily, Tomioka was around to save you from further traumatizing the children. With all that said, you didn't doubt that Rengoku was at the very least partially aware of your presence.
"Either way, I'm impressed you managed to stay hidden for so long. I couldn't detect you... but now that I think about it, that's not all that good,"
Tanjiro says with a disconcerted smile.
The fact that he hadn't caught your scent made him feel as if he wasn't paying enough attention to his surroundings. Zenitsu seemed to share his sentiment as he added that he hadn't even heard you.
Inosuke, ever brash and direct, added with a grunt,
"Hmph, yeah, not bad. But you're way too clumsy! Don't do anything stupid and get yourself killed. We're not here to babysit!"
You chuckled, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and amusement at their reactions. Despite the slip-up, you were glad to have their support and understanding. With renewed determination and the support of your friends, you continued trailing behind Rengoku, each step bringing you closer to the heart of the mission. The night enveloped you in its quiet intensity, the air charged with anticipation and the weight of responsibility. As you approached the town, Rengoku's authoritative presence guided the group, his keen senses alert for any signs of danger. The mission was about to enter its crucial phase, and with your friends by your side, you steeled yourself for the challenges ahead, ready to prove your worth and stand strong as a united team of Demon Slayers.
As you finally reached the edge of town, you were taken aback by the bustling crowd of people. The town seemed quite busy, even though it wasn't particularly late. But it made you wonder if these people were aware of the dangers lurking in their midst or if they were simply going about their lives, oblivious to the looming threat. The normalcy of the scene seemed starkly at odds with the mass disappearances you had been sent to investigate. Rengoku's sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, his expression unreadable as he took in the bustling activity. Tanjiro, Zenitsu, and Inosuke mirrored his vigilance, their senses heightened as they observed the townspeople going about their business.
"Strange,"
Tanjiro muttered under his breath, voicing the unease that had settled over the group.
Zenitsu's eyes darted nervously from person to person.
"Do you think they know what's been happening? Should we warn them?"
Inosuke snorted dismissively.
"They're probably too wrapped up in their own lives to notice anything!"
Rengoku maintained his focus and spoke firmly.
"Listen carefully. We must avoid drawing undue attention,"
he stated, his voice carrying authority.
"The existence of demons and the Demon Slayer Corps isn't officially acknowledged by the government, and we mustn't incite unnecessary panic. It's best if the public remains uninformed. However, there may be individuals with extra information, so let's gather it discreetly for now."
With a nod of agreement, the group proceeded cautiously into the town, blending in with the crowd. The atmosphere was tense, the anticipation of what you might uncover palpable in the air. Upon reaching the town center, Rengoku signaled for everyone to split up and gather information. You, Tanjiro, Zenitsu, and Inosuke each took a different approach, mingling with the townspeople and listening for any whispers or clues that could shed light on the recent disappearances. As you listened to snippets of conversations and observed the interactions around you, it seemed as if most of the townspeople were unaware of the dangers lurking in their midst. They discussed mundane matters, upcoming train schedules, and local news unrelated to the disappearances.
Tanjiro, who had taken a different path, joined you briefly, his expression troubled.
"I haven't heard anything about the disappearances,"
he whispered, barely audible over the crowd.
"It's like they're living in a different world."
You nodded in agreement, sharing his concern.
"Yeah, it's strange. There must be at least one person who knows something."
Zenitsu and Inosuke, having searched together elsewhere, eventually joined the conversation, each reporting similar findings. Most of the townspeople seemed oblivious to the looming threat, their ignorance adding complexity to the mission. Shortly after, Rengoku regrouped the team, his expression serious as he absorbed your collective observations.
"It seems the limited information we had before holds true; we're dealing with a situation where the demon is operating covertly, targeting unsuspecting victims without drawing too much attention. They likely possess considerable strength and cunning to execute such actions successfully."
"What's our next move, Rengoku-san?"
Tanjiro asked, his voice reflecting the uncertainty of the situation.
"We'll need to conduct a thorough investigation and delve deeper,"
Rengoku replied, his tone resolute.
"Spread out further, but exercise caution. We'll reconvene and plan our next steps."
With renewed determination, you dispersed once more, blending back into the crowd and continuing your search for clues. The night was far from over, and the mysteries surrounding the disappearances deepened with each passing moment. Tanjiro engaged in casual conversations with locals, subtly steering discussions toward recent events without raising suspicion. Zenitsu, though nervous, used his keen observation skills to pick up on subtle cues and whispers among the crowd. Inosuke, always direct, interrogated merchants and passersby, probing for any leads or unusual happenings—although his focus was short-lived as he soon became distracted by the myriad sights and smells of the town.
On the other hand, you found yourself drawn to a group of travelers engaged in a hushed discussion about strange events near the train station. Their voices were low, touching on disappearances and sightings of an eerie figure lurking in the shadows. Your heart raced as you listened in, sensing that these travelers might have important information. As they whispered, your focus sharpened at the mention of a specific train being taken out of service due to rumors of over forty passengers vanishing, along with reports of a conductor meeting a tragic end, his body discovered at the station. No one knew who or what was behind it all, but some had dubbed the mysterious assailant as the 'Slasher.'
You quickly began your search for your companions.
Spotting Tanjiro engrossed in a conversation with a local merchant, you subtly signaled for him to join you. His keen intuition picked up on your urgency, and he quickly excused himself from the conversation, following you with a determined look in his eyes. Zenitsu, ever alert and perceptive, caught your eye as you found him and motioned for him to follow. His nervous energy seemed to dissipate momentarily as he picked up on the seriousness of the situation, nodding in understanding and falling into step beside you. Inosuke, who had strayed farthest in town to inspect a display of various trinkets, was easily found and lured back with the promise of a potential lead and the prospect of a battle on the horizon. His excitement was palpable as he joined the group, ready for action and eager to uncover the truth behind the disappearances.
The last, and undoubtedly the most important, person you needed to find and share this new information with was missing. Rengoku could typically be easily spotted, but now he was nowhere to be found, leaving your group perplexed and wondering where he could have gone. Without Rengoku present, you couldn't fully discuss or share the crucial information you had gathered. His leadership and guidance would be instrumental in navigating the challenging situation that lay ahead.
"I need to speak with all of you, but we need to find Rengoku-san first,"
you stated.
Zenitsu nodded vigorously, sensing the urgency in your voice, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of the Flame Hashira.
"Okay! But, umm, I don’t see him anywhere…"
Under his mask, Inosuke's brows furrowed.
"I say we split up again and search for him. He can't have gone too far."
Agreeing with the plan, you and your companions fanned out, scouring the immediate surroundings for any trace of Rengoku. Minutes passed, tension mounting with each passing second as you searched through the bustling streets and shops. It was Zenitsu who finally found him, his keen ears managing to catch his loud, boisterous laugh rising above the cacophony of sounds from the streets and people. Without hesitation, the group converged on the location, peering inside a small shop to see Rengoku sitting at a table with another person dressed in a Corps uniform.
"Who's that with him?"
Tanjiro whispered, curiosity mingling in his voice.
Inosuke decided to approach the shop and enter without hesitation.
"Don't know, but let's go!"
The group followed suit, entering the shop and approaching Rengoku's table. The person sitting with Rengoku looked up, their expression a mix of surprise and recognition upon seeing fellow Corps members.
"Ah, you've found me,"
Rengoku said with a warm smile, standing up to greet you all.
"Allow me to introduce Hiraku-san. He came to investigate as well!"
Hiraku nodded in greeting, waving at everyone.
"It's a pleasure to meet all of you."
"Likewise,"
Tanjiro replied with a small smile.
"So, how long have you been here? Do you have any extra information regarding the disappearances?"
"Unfortunately, no..."
Hiraku shakes his head and frowns.
"I only arrived a day before all of you, so I haven't had much time to gather information yet. I know about as much as you do—the Slayer who discovered it was defeated, and his Kasugai crow reported the incident. However, the crow died from injuries sustained while trying to escape before it could tell us anything else. We don't know where this demon is at exactly... just that more and more people keep disappearing around the region."
"I actually have some new information to share with the group,"
you announced.
All eyes turned towards you, eager to hear your insights and discoveries.
"Excellent! Please, go ahead,"
Rengoku prompted.
"Well, I overheard a group of travelers discussing strange occurrences near the train station,"
you began, recounting the details you had gathered.
"They mentioned disappearances and sightings of an eerie figure lurking in the shadows. Apparently, the body of a conductor was found at the closest station, and over forty passengers on a train called the 'Mugen Train' have vanished without a trace, leading to its suspension. They believe it's the work of one person, dubbing them the 'Slasher.'"
Rengoku's expression turned somber as he absorbed the information.
"This confirms my suspicions that we're facing a formidable threat,"
he remarked, his tone grave yet resolute.
"It's likely a member of the Twelve Kizuki or an Upper Rank demon."
"Well, what are we waiting for?"
Inosuke suddenly exclaimed, leaping up.
"The demon seems to be hiding around the train station, not here in town! Let's go take it down right now!"
Rengoku nodded in agreement with Inosuke's assessment.
"The boar is right! Now that we know where these incidents are occurring, we must act swiftly and put an end to this."
With determination, Rengoku stood up, and the group followed suit, ready to confront the looming threat head-on. Urgency filled the air as you all swiftly exited the shop and made your way toward the train station, each step fueled by resolve and anticipation. Thirty minutes later, you arrived at the station, the atmosphere tense and the air heavy with the unknown. However, Rengoku's presence provided assurance, his fiery determination inspiring courage within each of you.
"We must proceed cautiously,"
Rengoku reminded the group, his voice firm yet calm.
"The demon may be well-hidden and waiting for the right moment to strike. Stay vigilant."
Zenitsu nodded fervently as he took to the back of group.
"I-I'll do my best to stay alert and watch our backs!"
With a shared sense of purpose, the group entered the train station, senses heightened and weapons at the ready. As you delved deeper into the station, the shadows seemed to deepen, and a sense of foreboding settled over the group. The usual bustling activity of a train station was conspicuously absent, adding to the eerie ambiance. It became clear why gathering information in town had been challenging; most townsfolk were not oblivious but actively avoided the train station, fearing that even speaking of it would bring bad luck.
Tanjiro's sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, his senses on high alert.
"It's too quiet,"
he murmured, voicing the group's collective unease.
"I really don't like this..."
Zenitsu, his nerves tingling with anticipation, added in a hushed tone,
"It feels like we're walking into a trap."
Inosuke grunted in agreement.
"Well, whatever's waiting for us won't know what hit it! With the six of us, we'll take it down no problem!"
Rengoku, leading the group with a steady stride, remained composed but vigilant. Every sound, every movement was amplified in the eerie silence, heightening your senses and putting everyone on edge. The unexpected sound of a soft sigh and an elderly woman's voice amidst the oppressive darkness of the train station caught your group off guard. Rengoku motioned for everyone to stay alert as you cautiously followed the sound to its source. Turning a corner, you came upon a small, dimly lit alcove where an elderly woman sat hunched over, reading a small book.
"Fuku, stop moping around and dig in!"
In front of her sat a little girl, holding a box filled with various food items and drinks, a frown marking her face.
"Another slow day with hardly any customers..."
"I know I've been repeating this every day, but it's risky to be out after dark."
The elderly woman turned a page, smiling and humming.
"Starting tomorrow, you can assist in the afternoons, dear. Criminals tend to lurk about after nightfall."
"There are no criminals around here! Quit bringing that up, please. I need to sell as many lunch boxes as possible. It's already tough with mom being pregnant... and dad's shop failing."
The woman sighed, setting the book aside.
"Leave the worrying to us boring old grown-ups. While it's still dark, I'll handle things, alright?"
"But what if the 'Slasher' attacks you too?"
"I'd gladly sacrifice myself for your safety."
The girl gasped, nearly dropping the bean-paste bun she had taken out of its packaging, her brows furrowing disapprovingly.
"Grandma!"
Before their conversation could continue, your group approached. The girl looked up, her eyes widening with a mix of surprise and caution.
"Good evening! Lovely weather tonight, wouldn't you say?"
Rengoku greeted them with his trademark grin.
"Good evening,"
the woman replied with a friendly nod.
"Yes, the weather is quite pleasant. Is there something you need?"
Tanjiro stepped forward, his empathetic nature evident in his voice.
"Sorry, but we couldn't help but overhear your conversation. Is everything alright here?"
The little girl shifted uncomfortably, her worry evident despite trying to maintain a composed facade.
"Oh, um, yes! Everything's fine... it's not like there's a killer lurking about. Nope!"
Rengoku, deciding to be straightforward about the situation, spoke up.
"I see! Well, I'm searching for the one you call 'Slasher'. Have you seen them?"
The little girl quickly stands and gets into a defensive stance, holding her arms out. She shakes from anger or anxiety, her eyes narrowing as she looks you all over with a scrutinizing glare. She did not want to discuss the ‘Slasher’ at all; it would only make matters worse. She had enough to worry about, and having a group of random people going around looking for them would be bad for business.
"What? No, of course not! Go away!"
"Watch out! If you keep shaking like that, you'll drop your bean-paste bun!"
"Get lost!"
The girl shrieks, flinging the bun straight at Rengoku. It smacks him squarely in the face, sticking and momentarily obscuring his view of the varied expressions around him. He reaches up, removes the bun, and takes a bite without hesitation, a smile spreading across his lips.
"Tasty!"
The girl continues her tirade, seemingly unphased by his exuberant attitude.
"Don't speak about the 'Slasher'! You'll just scare more people away! They aren't here!"
"Fuku, calm down,"
the elderly woman soothes, resting her hand on the girl's shoulder.
"I don't think they mean any harm. They seem to want to help, right? If this 'Slasher' is still around, I'd be grateful to have these people take care of them."
The girl looks down, feeling a pang of remorse as everyone nods.
"I'm sorry, I've just been on edge because of the incidents. No one wants to come around the station and buy our food anymore, but we really need the money. I'm afraid that even talking about it will just bring more bad news."
"It's okay. People like you shouldn't have to worry about life-threatening danger. But rest assured, I'll deal with this 'Slasher'! We'll be on our way now."
The girl's grin widens, but it quickly shifts to a sheepish expression as she stops you all from leaving and picks up the tray holding the various lunch boxes and drinks, her eyes flickering down.
"I really am sorry for before,"
she begins, her tone apologetic,
"and this is shameless of me, but would you be willing to buy something before you go?"
As the girl's request hung in the air, your group exchanged glances, silently considering her offer. Rengoku, with a friendly smile, spoke up first.
"I would be delighted to buy some of your delicious offerings,"
he said warmly, reaching into his pocket for coins.
"It's the least we can do after causing a bit of a ruckus."
The girl's eyes lit up with gratitude as she started to gather a few boxes, one for each person present.
"Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy them,"
she said earnestly.
Rengoku beamed and nodded enthusiastically.
"I'm sure they're great. And I'll be buying them all!"
The girl paused, gasping in surprise at his declaration.
"A-All?! Are you sure?"
"Absolutely!"
He affirmed with a cheerful smile.
After Rengoku purchased all the available items for sale, Hiraku took it upon himself to gather the food into three big bags, carrying one on his back and the other two in his hands.
"This sure is a lot of food,"
Hiraku commented with amusement.
"Can we even eat all of that?"
Zenitsu wondered aloud, glancing at the abundance of food.
"No, probably not."
Rengoku hummed in thought for a moment, then grabbed one of the bags, his grin widening as he announced,
"We'll take one bag for ourselves and give the rest to the other Corps members!"
The idea was met with nods of agreement and appreciation from the group. It was a thoughtful gesture that would surely be welcomed by fellow Demon Slayer Corps members. With the bags of food in tow, your group bid farewell to the girl and her grandmother. As you left the train station and ventured back into the darkness outside, the night air seemed lighter, filled with a sense of joy. The weight of the mission still loomed, but the brief encounter had lifted spirits within your group.
Tanjiro and you offered to help carry some of the load, but Hiraku politely refused with a small smile and promptly left the train station by himself to return to the headquarters and give the other members of the Corps the other two bags of food. You all watched him disappear into the night, making his way towards the town where he would stay for the night before leaving the region. The girl and her grandmother watched as your group left and began to close up for the night. The elderly woman turned to her granddaughter with a small smile as she started to clean and lock up the little shop.
However, a sudden chill down her spine made her uneasy.
"Fuku, we need to hurry home,"
she said, her voice carrying a note of urgency.
"Something tells me we shouldn't stay here much longer tonight..."
Exiting the train station, Rengoku leads your group back outside. He has come to the conclusion that the 'Slasher' was using the trains to travel back and forth, killing as many people as possible. If his suspicions are correct, you might encounter the 'Slasher' on the next train or at another station and finally be able to eliminate the threat. As you wait around, you find yourself staring off into space, gazing at the stars above. It's a quiet, peaceful night despite the looming threat. However, you're not overly worried about the outcome of this mission. You have your companions and Rengoku, an incredibly determined and strong Hashira, with you. Yet, you can't shake the feeling that perhaps you're too comfortable, and anything could go wrong.
Life, as you know, is often unfair and unpredictable.
Watching the stars twinkling above, you take a slow, deep breath and close your eyes, hoping and praying that tonight will end well, even though the odds are mostly in your favor. You have to believe that everything will turn out alright, that your team will be able to slay the demon terrorizing the town and train station. If it has killed and eaten over forty people, then it's plausible that it's indeed quite strong and cunning—a Twelve Kizuki or an Upper Moon. You don't have any experience facing either of those ranks, but you know they shouldn't be underestimated. If it really is a powerful demon, you'll all have to be extra careful.
The silence is suddenly broken as Rengoku turns to face everyone and commands attention, his voice more subdued than normal, although he still has a small smile on his face.
"I want all of you to stay here,"
Rengoku's eyes flicker over each member, making eye contact.
"If this demon is as quick and strong as it appears, and it happens to return here, it would be best for you to stick together. I will go to the next station and warehouse alone and search for it there."
Rengoku's command hung in the air, each member of the group weighing the gravity of his words. The idea of Rengoku facing a powerful demon alone sent a shiver down your spine, yet you placed your trust in his strength and experience. Before departing, he placed the bag of food down, swiftly grabbed a box for everyone, handed them out, packed it back up, and slung it over his shoulder. As the Flame Hashira strode towards the next train station and warehouse on foot, a mix of apprehension and determination settled in. This marked the moment of truth, the culmination of your training and resolve.
With Rengoku's departure, the group gathered closely, exchanging silent nods and encouraging glances.
The group fell into a tense silence, your senses alert and focused on your surroundings. Time seemed to slow as you waited, the quiet anticipation punctuated only by the occasional rustle of movement or whispered exchange as you all ate your boxes of food. The night felt alive with the potential for danger, and every minute that passed felt like an eternity. Zenitsu jumped and perked up when he heard footsteps approaching from the train station behind them. His shoulders relaxed as he realized it was just the older woman and her granddaughter, preparing to leave for the night. They waved and pushed their cart along, but Tanjiro and Zenitsu both noticed how difficult it was, so they offered to help escort them back to their home.
The younger girl tried to refuse their help, clearly not wanting to be seen as weak or incapable, but she relented when her grandmother voiced how tired she was, no longer having the energy or strength that she used to have. Watching them leave, you and Inosuke were left to stay guard at the station. After around ten minutes of standing around, you grew bored and started to pace the platform, slowly making your way over to the edge. Inosuke followed you, his head on a swivel as you took a seat, gently swinging your legs as they dangled below. You half-expected him to yell at you for sitting down, or even tackle you, but he remained quiet by your side.
The minutes ticked by, the night seeming to drag on, and you started to grow a little weary. Tanjiro and Zenitsu still hadn’t shown back up, likely because the elderly woman and her granddaughter lived further in town. You weren’t worried about them, though, as it was unlikely that any demons would be lurking in the town even at this hour. It was bustling with activity and bright lights kept the darkness at bay. You almost started to worry about your mentor, Rengoku, but you knew he was more than capable of handling himself. This just left your mind to wander to your current situation with Inosuke. You were both alone at this train station. With the station closed for the night, there were only a few dim lights scattered around.
You weren’t necessarily scared, but you did feel a little uneasy with the group being so separated.
What if the demon showed up?
If it was stronger than the demons you’ve seen and faced before, could you and Inosuke handle it by yourselves?
You wanted to believe that you could win a battle against the demon, but if it truly was a Twelve Kizuki or an Upper Moon, then what would you even be able to do? You’ve heard of plenty of Demon Slayers of higher skill who hadn’t been so lucky to escape an encounter with such powerful demons, and with you still being relatively inexperienced, it didn’t bode well. As if sensing your nervous energy, Inosuke crouched next to you and huffed, lightly bumping your shoulder with his own. You couldn’t see his face, but you gave him a small smile as you turned your attention back to the night sky, leaning back on your hands. He remained crouched, his arms resting on his knees as he kept watch, scanning the surrounding area and the forest further beyond.
Nearly half an hour later, Tanjiro and Zenitsu showed back up. At first, you hadn't realized it was them as Inosuke instantly jumped to your other side and stood defensively, placing an arm back as if to shield you while pulling out one of his swords. You tried to stand up as quickly as you could, but the moment you both realized it was just your friends returning, you settled back down with a relieved sigh and Inosuke relaxed, plopping down beside you.
Tanjiro and Zenitsu smiled, joining you and Inosuke sitting on the platform and watching the land. No one spoke, enjoying the silence that hung over the air. Eventually, you had to use the restroom, so you got up and had to reassure the guys that you were fine going alone. Zenitsu protested the most, arguing to accompany you to make sure you would be safe, but he eventually gave up when you gave him an annoyed look. Located on the outer back side of the station, you made your way to the restroom, lazily dragging your feet along. Reaching the door, you pushed it open and entered, the dim light flickering and casting ominous shadows.
Not wanting to be in here any longer than necessary you quickly took care of business, washed your hands, and dried them off on your haori as you exited.
Walking along the wall, you were about to turn the corner and rejoin your friends when you felt a gust of wind. Everything happened in slow motion as you lifted your head and suddenly came face to face with a demon, your body too slow to react. Before you could even scream, it grabbed you by the throat and lifted you into the air. You tried to kick and pull its hand away, but the lack of oxygen quickly disoriented you and made it difficult to function.
‘Not good..!’
Its grip around your throat loosened by a fraction as it heard the voices of your friends just around the corner, about fifty yards away. It grinned and carried you with it as it walked around the corner and watched your companions, completely unaware of what was happening right behind them. As it walked out, your friends turned around, expecting to see you returning from the restroom. But their faces paled, expressions grim as they jumped to their feet and brandished their blades, preparing to attack. The demon stopped them from moving, though.
“Don’t move a muscle or I’ll squeeze the very life out of her!”
it threatened, its hand constricting tightly around your neck.
Your face started to turn red and blue as the air was restricted from entering your lungs. Inosuke growled, his chest heaving as he fought the urge to jump in and eliminate the demon, but he wasn’t careless enough to do so with your life on the line—he needed an opening. This demon had to have been extremely fast and quiet if none of them had even noticed it until it showed up with you in its clutch. If they all took him on, they could possibly win; however, with you being held hostage, it wasn’t an option right now and it greatly pissed him off.
‘Damn it, Bubbles! I told you to expect the unexpected, why’d you have to let your guard down? You should’ve just let cry-baby here go with you!’
Inosuke’s gaze flicked to the side to see the reactions of the others. Zenitsu trembled, his eyes blown wide as his jaw and fists clenched. The sight of you dangling in the demon’s grasp, your eyes struggling to stay open as you slowly started to lose consciousness, drove him wild with an intense fear and anger that he’d never felt before. However, he didn't dare make a move. It wasn’t worth risking your life.
They would have to follow its orders if you were to have a chance of surviving.
Tanjiro burned holes into the demon as he stared it down, his brows pinched with anger and worry for your well-being as he seethed.
“Let her go!”
“Hmmm, and what if I don’t?”
the demon taunted, bringing its other hand up to drag a nail over your cheek.
“Do you think any of you could make me?”
With a quick flick of its finger, it cut your cheek, leaving a streak of blooming red. Tanjiro stepped forward but immediately stopped when the demon quickly placed its hand right over your chest and grinned wickedly, poised to pierce through your heart. Zenitsu made a choked sound and stumbled forward as his hand instinctively darted out, as if he could somehow reach you, but he only fell to his knees as he essentially pleaded for your life.
“Stop, d-don’t hurt her! Just let her go!”
It leaned closer to your face, sniffing as it caught the scent of your blood.
“Ahh, a Marechi… how delightful!"
It grinned again and chuckled lowly as it dug its finger into the fresh wound to produce more blood.
"She will certainly make a delicious meal.”
"Aghhh, you bastard! You're gonna pay for that,”
Inosuke bellowed, stomping his feet and swinging his swords up into an offensive position, pointing the blades directly at the demon.
“You better watch out, cause I’m gonna tear you into a thousand shreds!”
As the energy intensified and your friends’ agitation became palpable, the demon took one step back and quickly raised its arm, preparing to strike, fingers straightened like a spear as it drove forward. Just like before, everything moved in slow motion as you watched through blurred vision. You’d probably pass out before you died, but the thought didn’t make it any less painful. The faces of your friends became etched in your mind as they began to move and the demon’s hand inched closer and closer, their panicked voices drowned out by the pounding in your head. Your heart panged, not wanting them to suffer with the guilt of you dying right before their very eyes because they couldn’t save you in time. It wasn’t their fault you had been so careless and let your guard down. You just hoped they’d be able to fight this demon and win once you were gone.
Your eyelids slowly slid shut as the last remnants of consciousness started to fade.
'Why am I always passing out...'
Whoosh…!
A burst of warm air fanned over you as your body was suddenly pulled from the demon and cradled within firm but gentle arms. You barely lifted your head and blinked to find yourself looking at Rengoku from beneath his chin. You couldn’t see his face, but you could feel the fire burning within him as he held you close, his form hunched protectively over you.
“Rengoku-san, I'm…”
your voice barely came out as you struggled to speak.
You wanted to apologize. You should have been more cautious, quicker, and much stronger than you were before. How could you let a demon capture you? You nearly died from your carelessness, and your friends would’ve had to helplessly watch had he not shown back up in the nick of time. You felt ashamed with the fact that your mentor had to save you, even though you've been training tirelessly. Why couldn't you ever do anything right?
He briefly glanced down at you, his signature smile making an appearance.
“Are you alright?”
You managed to nod and smile a little before passing out from the lack of oxygen and the adrenaline crashing through you. Rengoku’s gaze remained on you for a few more seconds, stopping to stare at the line of red on your cheek. Though he was still smiling, it didn’t reach his eyes as he looked back at the demon with a hardened gaze. The demon snarled as it held its severed arm, gritting its teeth as the limb regenerated. Rengoku carefully laid you down and stepped away, your other companions still standing a few feet away.
“How the hell did you catch up to me so fast,”
the demon queried with an annoyed huff.
The demon had stumbled upon Rengoku at the warehouse where the Mugen Train was undergoing maintenance. Initially, he had intended to slaughter the humans there, only for the Hashira's unexpected arrival to disrupt his plans. Thinking he had escaped, he grew eager upon encountering a group of less experienced Slayers, hoping to prey on them. Unbeknownst to him, the Hashira had relentlessly pursued him since their first encounter.
Rengoku widened his stance, his head held high.
“I told you not to get too cocky earlier.”
Growling, the demon made a proposition.
“Hmph! You're fast, I'll give you that. How about we play a little game? I win if I can slash that girl’s throat open. You win if you sever my head before I do.”
“I accept your challenge!”
Rengoku grabbed his blade and got into position, his smile growing as he added,
“Good luck!”
The trio gasped and made disgruntled noises at his statement. They all wanted to be by your side and carry you further away to safety but knew that they couldn’t interfere. They had to trust Rengoku. The demon didn’t even blink before Rengoku rushed forward with incredible speed, swirling flames around him, his blade swinging down in a fiery arc and slicing straight through the demon’s neck.
It was over before if even truly began.
“I win!”
he shouted in victory.
The demon’s face contorted into a mix of shock and fury as it crumbled to the ground and turned to ash, blowing away in a soft breeze. Standing back up straight, Rengoku sheathed his blade with one hand remaining on the hilt as he turned to face the others who looked at him with wide eyes of astonishment.
Tanjiro's voice trembled slightly, breaking the silence.
"R-Rengoku-san…"
His voice trailed off, unsure of what to say. His brain felt sluggish after experiencing that terrifying moment. He was relieved beyond measure that Rengoku had returned so quickly. His worry wasn't so much for himself, Zenitsu, or Inosuke as it was for you. You had been caught off guard and were trapped within the demon's claws, and there was nothing he or the other two could do in that moment to save you. He didn't even want to entertain the thought—the idea of you dying before his eyes made him feel sick to his stomach.
"Oh man, I’m so glad you showed up…"
Zenitsu said, almost as if he were echoing Tanjiro's thoughts, his body seeming to deflate as the crisis was averted.
"So, is that it?"
Inosuke inquired with curiosity, hands on his hips.
"What about the Boo-vin Train?"
"It's the Mugen Train,"
Zenitsu corrected him with a sigh.
Inosuke dismissed Zenitsu's correction, waiting for Rengoku's response. Rengoku hummed as he approached your unconscious form on the ground, carefully lifting you into his arms before addressing the question.
"Well, that demon was hiding in the maintenance warehouse where the Mugen Train is currently being serviced. It will be finished tonight and return tomorrow."
"What a relief,"
Tanjiro said with a small smile.
"So everyone can relax now, right?"
"It's a bit too soon to say that. A demon who has devoured more than forty people is surely much more formidable,"
Rengoku cautioned.
Tanjiro caught on quickly, his expression becoming tense.
“You mean… that demon—the ‘Slasher’—was just a distraction?”
Rengoku nodded gravely.
“That might very well be true. A demon that is far more powerful and mysterious may lurk within the Mugen Train itself.”
"So, what's our next move?"
"We'll board the Mugen Train tomorrow evening!"
The next day, you wake up to the soft glow of dawn filtering through shoji screens, the delicate paper panels diffusing the early morning light into a gentle luminescence that bathes the room. The air is cool and fresh, carrying the faint scent of pine from the nearby forest through a partially opened window. The futon beneath you is warm and comfortable, a cocoon of softness against the early chill. The sounds of the countryside stir outside—distant bird calls and the rustling of leaves in the wind. As your eyes adjust to the gentle illumination, you take in the serene simplicity of the room. The wooden beams above you are dark and polished, their grain telling stories of time and tradition. A low table stands in the center of the room, its surface reflecting the soft light.
Just then, someone gently knocks, a kneeled shadow looming behind the shoji screens. You rise slowly and open the doors, revealing Rengoku on the other side.
He stands and enters the room with a bright smile.
“Good, you’re awake! How are you feeling?”
he asks.
“Fine,”
you croak, wincing at the sore and bruised feeling of your throat.
"Where are we?"
"Ah, after you passed out, we came back into town and found a hospitable Ryokan for us to stay,"
he explained.
His eyes briefly flicker to the slight discoloration on your neck, his expression remaining neutral except for the subtle pinch in his brow as his gaze is drawn away to the small table. You notice the two sets of beautifully lacquered trays he’s carrying as he sets them down. Each tray holds a simple breakfast: a bowl of steaming miso soup, a small dish of pickled vegetables, and a perfectly shaped onigiri wrapped in seaweed. The meals are modest yet inviting, a perfect reflection of the Ryokan’s understated elegance. A simple tea set is arranged to the side, promising warmth in the cool morning air. You salivate at the sight, but a question nags at you: what happened to the large bag of lunch boxes he bought last night?
As if sensing your silent question, Rengoku glances back up and grins.
“I gave all of the lunch boxes to the maintenance workers last night, so unfortunately, we won't be able to enjoy them. However, breakfast is provided here, so don't worry!”
he reassures, gesturing for you to join him at the low table.
“We’ll need our strength for the day ahead, so let’s eat!”
As you maneuver over and settle down at the low table, Rengoku begins preparing a cup of tea. The gentle clink of porcelain cups fills the air as he pours the steaming hot liquid, its rich aroma blending with the scent of breakfast. The tranquility of the Ryokan seeps into the room, creating a peaceful atmosphere that soothes your senses. The aroma of the food and tea must be strong because a few loud huffs are heard before Inosuke suddenly bursts through the doors and into your room, his hair mussed up and falling over his face. He pushes it back messily as he eyes the food, his stomach audibly grumbling.
“Hell yeah, grub!”
he exclaims.
His outburst startles Zenitsu awake from the next room over, and he gently shakes Tanjiro from his slumber. They quickly join the three of you in your room. Realizing what is about to happen, Zenitsu steps in and grabs onto Inosuke, halting his steps.
"Inosuke, that's for Y/n-chan! We have to go get our own,"
Zenitsu rebukes as he drags Inosuke away.
Tanjiro follows after them to make sure they don't get into trouble. After a couple of minutes, they come back with their own trays of food. Everyone is quiet as they eat, enjoying the slow and peaceful morning. However, once everyone has had their fill of food, Rengoku commands your attention and announces that the Mugen Train is scheduled to arrive this evening. This leaves you with quite a bit of time to explore the town and do whatever you want for a while—a moment of repose from the hectic and harrowing night before, and the one to come.
The decision to board the train where over forty passengers had disappeared left you with a sense of unease. A strange, heavy sensation settled in your chest, sinking down to your stomach. Last night had been semi-eventful, and while your group, particularly Rengoku, had successfully defeated the demon, you couldn't shake the ominous feeling that something terrible was still on the horizon, something beyond what you had initially imagined. Especially when Tanjiro had informed you about the situation.
That demon from last night most likely wasn’t the real threat, and it left a bitter taste on your tongue as you drank the rest of your drink. You were not looking forward to what lay ahead. Although nervous, you had been so excited to accompany your companions on this mission. But with how things turned out last night, you were starting to regret coming here and doubting yourself once again. You had almost died if not for the swift reappearance of Rengoku. You felt ashamed having to be rescued by your very mentor.
You greatly owed him, as well as the others, for saving your life—not once, but a handful of times now.
Everyone got ready for the day and headed out into the town to explore all the different shops and other sights. There was much more to do and see in this town compared to the village you had visited on your first mission. Feeling a little excited to roam the streets and take your mind off of things, you quickly veered away from the others and made your way down the cobbled road in search of adventure that was far less dangerous than your job. Before you could wander too far, Zenitsu caught up and skipped to your side, giving you a friendly smile.
"Hey, where are you heading off to?"
You shrugged.
"Not sure! I was just going to look around."
"Would it be alright if I came with you?"
he asked, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he anxiously waited for your reply.
"Sure, let's go!"
You grinned and grabbed his hand as your attention was instantly drawn elsewhere, oblivious to the way he started sweating and blushing as you dragged him along. He prayed that you couldn't feel how clammy his palm had gotten clutched within your hand, his heart racing with the innocent gesture. He nearly tripped a few times as he tried to keep up with you, finding it difficult to tear his eyes away from you. The way that you were smiling, the excitement and happiness glowing on your face, made his heart squeeze in his chest. He was glad that you didn't seem too upset about last night. However, it was sweet torture being so close to you, yet being so far apart in terms of your relationship—or lack of, romantically wise.
You're friends, and he cherishes being able to call himself that!
But it doesn't stop him from wanting more...
Despite the passage of time, his feelings have remained steadfast. If anything, they've only grown stronger, becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. He's gone out of his way for you, from picking flowers to listening to your complaints, training together, and consistently being by your side as a friend above all else. However, his feelings for you have transcended mere friendship, evolving into something he might cautiously label as love. While he can't definitively claim it's love, it seems like the closest word to encapsulate his emotions. What he can affirm is that his initial crush on you has deepened significantly. And he's managed to keep these feelings under control, not wanting to cause you any discomfort.
Yet, how long can he realistically contain them?
While he has flirted with you in the past (if those interactions can even be called that), it has always felt obvious to him, though you seemed oblivious. Admittedly, he was more confident and flirtatious when you were still new to learning Japanese. Naturally, you had no idea what was going on at the time, so he can't blame you for turning a blind eye to his burgeoning feelings. And despite being able to communicate and understand each other, he wouldn't dare to express his feelings as he has now.
But he has mulled over the idea of just putting an end to his suffering by confessing already, however, he feels as if just spilling his guts to you randomly would be quite the shock and overwhelming, so he chooses to bite his tongue and remain quiet.
And surprisingly, his objective isn't solely about winning your affection anymore. Beyond the desire to call you his own, what he truly longs for is to witness your happiness, to hear your laughter, and to be as close to you as you'll allow. This doesn't signify him giving up; rather, it reflects the depth of his feelings. Surely, that must mean something? He feels as if it's indicative of his personal growth. Previously, he would have pursued you relentlessly, driven by the fear of loneliness rather than genuine connection.
Now, his motivations have shifted.
He's realized that his past actions, aimed at making you like him more, left him feeling dissatisfied—much like the bitterness of the medicine he took while recovering from the poison effects of the Spider Demon on Mount Natagumo. That realization had lead to another—he doesn't want your affection simply because he has feelings for you.
He desires your admiration and affection for who he is, not just for what he does.
As far as he knows, you appreciate him as a friend, and that's good enough. Nonetheless, his mind still races and his heart quickens whenever he's in your presence, a testament to the depth of his complex emotions. As the day progresses and you continue your exploration, you notice his subtle glances and the way his eyes light up whenever he looks at you. There's a warmth in his gaze that speaks volumes, a silent understanding that transcends words. With each step you take together, his admiration for you grows, intertwined with a tinge of wistfulness for what could be. He revels in the simplicity of your friendship, yet he can't help but wonder about the possibilities beyond.
What would it be like to hold your hand not just as friends but as something more? The thought lingers in the back of his mind, a silent longing that he pushes aside in favor of treasuring the present moment.
He catches himself smiling as you excitedly point out a quaint shop with clothes and jewelry, your eyes alight with curiosity. His heart warms at your enthusiasm, and he finds himself sharing in your excitement, imagining what it would be like to share moments like this on a deeper level. But he quickly reins in those thoughts, reminding himself of the importance of patience and respecting your boundaries. With a gentle smile, he nods in agreement as you suggest going into the shop and browsing the merchandise, appreciating the simple joy of exploring new places with you. As you chat animatedly about the textures and patterns, he finds himself genuinely interested in your thoughts and opinions, savoring these moments of togetherness.
In that moment, as you share a laugh over the way a simple ring had gotten stuck on your pointer finger (which he insisted on paying for), he realizes that regardless of what the future may hold, having you as a friend is a gift he treasures above all else. The idea of sharing more experiences like this with you, where laughter and conversation flow effortlessly, brings a sense of contentment to his heart.
You continue browsing around, enjoying each other's company for a while, walking in amicable silence. Once you leave the store, you decide to search for your other friends and spend some one-on-one time with them as well. Zenitsu is understanding and bids you farewell as you search for either one of your other companions: Tanjiro or Inosuke. After a few minutes of searching, you spot Tanjiro walking down the street, his expression curious as he takes in the sights around him. You hurry over to catch up with him, calling out his name. Tanjiro turns towards you with a bright smile, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you.
"Hey there! What have you been up to?"
Tanjiro asks, his voice filled with genuine interest.
"Hey! Zenitsu-kun and I walked around for a bit and found a nice little store,"
you reply, matching his smile.
"We just got done and I thought it would be nice to spend some time with you too."
Tanjiro's smile widens at your words, his eyes sparkling with warmth.
"That sounds wonderful! I'm glad you thought of spending time with me."
He gestures for you to walk alongside him as you continue down the street.
"Did you find anything interesting?"
You nod, recalling the atmosphere and beautiful variety of clothing, accessories, and jewelry.
"Yeah, I did. It was a really nice shop, but I have a ring now because it accidentally got stuck!"
As you stroll along, Tanjiro enthusiastically shares his interest in your time spent with Zenitsu and laughs as you show him your finger. It didn't appear swollen or discolored, but the ring certainly wasn't going to budge anytime soon. The conversation flows effortlessly between you, punctuated with laughter and shared moments of discovery. After a while, Tanjiro's eyes light up as he suggests exploring a nearby park that caught his eye during his earlier exploration of the town.
"There's a beautiful park not too far from here,"
he mentions, excitement evident in his voice.
"It looked like it has a lot of flowers that bloom around this time of year."
You enthusiastically agree, eager to bask in the tranquility of the park and relish more quality time with your friend. Together, you meander towards the park, exchanging lively conversation and shared laughter along the way, cherishing the bond of friendship that deepens with every moment spent together. Upon arriving at the park, a sense of serenity washes over you, accompanied by the gentle fluttering of leaves and flower petals in the breeze. The landscape is adorned with a delightful array of hydrangeas, sunflowers, lavender, and morning glories, creating a mesmerizing tapestry of colors. Tanjiro guides you to a secluded spot beneath a vibrant maple tree, its leaves forming a picturesque canopy overhead.
"Wow, isn't this place beautiful?"
you exclaim, eyes sparkling with appreciation for the natural beauty around you.
"It's stunning,"
Tanjiro agrees, his eyes wandering around the peaceful ambiance of the park before falling back on you with a gentle smile.
"I'm glad we could share this moment together."
You return his smile, feeling a warmth in your heart at his words.
"Me too,"
you say softly, touched by the sincerity in his gaze.
"It's moments like these that make everything else seem insignificant..."
Tanjiro nods in understanding, his expression reflecting a deep appreciation for the tranquility of the park and the closeness between you.
"Sometimes, it really is the simple things in life that bring us the most joy,"
he muses, a thoughtful glint in his eyes.
You find a comfortable spot on the grass, and Tanjiro joins you, both of you leaning back against the tree trunk. The tranquility of the park washes over you, momentarily quieting the hustle and bustle of daily life around the town. As you sit together, Tanjiro opens up about his past experiences growing up as a child and as a Demon Slayer within recent years, sharing the challenges he faced and the lessons he learned. You listen attentively, captivated by every detail, and admire his deep affection and dedication to his family during his upbringing. The warmth and comfort he describes from being surrounded by such love resonate deeply with you. Having a family like his becomes a cherished aspiration for your own future. And his passion for protecting others and his determination to become stronger shine through in his words.
In turn, you share your own thoughts and experiences, discussing your growth as a Demon Slayer and the valuable lessons you've learned along the way. Tanjiro listens intently, offering thoughtful insights and expressing his admiration for your dedication and perseverance. The conversation shifts to lighter topics, and you find yourselves reminiscing about your adventures together, sharing fond memories and laughter. Time seems to slow down as you enjoy each other's company in the tranquil setting of the park. As the sky begins to deepen into shades of orange and purple, signaling the approaching evening, Tanjiro stands up, stretching his arms with a satisfied sigh.
"It's getting late,"
he remarks, glancing at the fading light.
"We should head back soon."
You nod in agreement, rising to your feet as well.
"Yeah, it's been a wonderful afternoon. Thank you for spending time with me, Tanjiro."
He smiles warmly, his eyes reflecting genuine affection.
"Anytime!"
Together, you make your way out of the park, filled with memories of your time together that bring you a sense of peace and gratitude. Walking side by side, the bond between you and Tanjiro feels stronger than ever, a testament to the power of friendship and shared experiences. Then you part ways. Now, all that's left is to find Inosuke and spend the last hour and a half with him, but that might be easier said than done. Your hot-headed friend always seems to be up to no good and getting into trouble. As you weave through the streets in search of Inosuke, you can't help but feel a sense of fondness for your unpredictable friend. Despite his brash exterior and tendency to charge into situations without much forethought, Inosuke's unpredictability and playfulness are qualities you admire.
Suddenly, a familiar commotion up ahead catches your attention.
A crowd has gathered, and amidst the sea of faces, you catch a glimpse of Inosuke's distinct boar mask. He's surrounded by a group of curious onlookers, regaling them with exaggerated tales of his latest escapades. You quickly make your way over and wordlessly drag him away, not wanting him to get into any trouble by potentially spilling any Corps secrets or rising suspicions and panic about the existence of demons. As you guide him to a quieter corner, you can feel the weight of the situation settling on your shoulders. The Corps' secrets are tightly guarded, and any slip-up could have dire consequences not just for him but for everyone involved. With a mixture of caution and concern, you begin to question him discreetly, trying to gauge how much he might have inadvertently revealed and how to mitigate any potential fallout. The delicate dance of secrecy and trust within the Corps is a constant balancing act, and in moments like these, every word and action carries significant weight.
Fortunately, he hasn't divulged anything about the Demon Slayer Corps or demons, instead sharing tales of his solitary life on a mountain with a group of boars.
As you lead Inosuke further away from the commotion, a sense of relief washes over you. You suggest spending some time together away from the crowds, perhaps exploring a quieter part of town or grabbing a drink. To your surprise, Inosuke nods without protest, his usual boisterousness momentarily subdued. He follows you quietly, his curiosity piqued by the prospect of a different kind of adventure. You decide to take him to a charming little teahouse nestled in a small nook at the end of the street. It was bold choice given the nature of your wild friend, but you wanted to experience something new with him. The soft lights and the gentle music playing in the background on a record player create a soothing ambiance, a stark contrast to the bustling streets you left behind. As you both walk inside, Inosuke eyes the delicate teacups and elegant teapots lining shelves with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.
"This place is weird,"
he mutters, but there's a hint of intrigue in his voice.
"Give it a try! You might be surprised."
He grunts and leans back on a wall, arms crossed over his chest. A middle-aged woman approaches and greets you, immediately diving into her work by discussing the various teas and other goods available. She brings out a box containing different tea blends, explaining their flavors and the benefits of each one. You end up choosing a blend of Green Tea, while Inosuke opts for a blend of Sencha. The woman swiftly brings you into a quiet room and prepares the tea, and before you know it, you have two steaming cups in front of you as you sit on the tatami floor. Inosuke eyes the tea suspiciously, slowly removing his mask before taking a cautious sip. His expression shifts from uncertainty to pleasant surprise as the warm, earthy notes dance on his tongue.
"Hey, this isn't bad!"
he exclaims, taking another sip with more enthusiasm this time.
As Inosuke starts to relax in the serene atmosphere of the teahouse, you notice his guard gradually lowering, his shoulders easing from their usual tense posture. As you sip your own tea, you engage Inosuke in a small conversation about the various flavors and traditions of tea that you learned while reading and studying books when Uzui was teaching you Japanese. Surprisingly, he listens intently, asking questions and sharing his own thoughts with genuine interest. It's a side of him you rarely see—the curious and contemplative Inosuke, rather than the brash and impulsive warrior.
The teahouse's owner, a wise elderly woman with a kind smile, enters the room and smiles at your interaction. She introduces herself as Maki Hisako and offers to perform a traditional tea ceremony for the both of you. Intrigued, you and Inosuke agree, and she begins the intricate ritual with graceful movements and a peaceful demeanor. Throughout the ceremony, Inosuke watches with rapt attention, his usual energy now focused on the delicate art unfolding before him. As Maki Hisako explains the symbolism behind each step, you also find yourself gaining a new appreciation for the culture and mindfulness involved in the process. By the time the ceremony concludes, Inosuke's demeanor has undergone a subtle transformation. He appears more centered and reflective, his gaze lingering on the serene beauty of the traditional paper walls and art of the teahouse.
"That was... different,"
Inosuke remarks, his voice carrying a newfound depth.
You smile, feeling a sense of accomplishment in having introduced him to this tranquil experience.
"Sometimes, it's good to step away from the battles and noise, even if just for a moment. Taking some time to reflect and meditate is healthy for the mind and body."
Inosuke nods in understanding, taking another sip of his tea with a newfound appreciation.
"I'll have to remember that the next time I feel like smashing something..."
You chuckle softly, realizing that even the most rugged and battle-hardened individuals can appreciate moments of peace and tranquility.
Inosuke draws in a breath, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Thanks for this, uh... tea adventure."
"No problem. We should do this more often, huh?"
He doesn't respond, simply looking at you over the rim of his cup as he takes another drink. His eyes quickly flit away as his attention is drawn to the simple decorations dotting the place. As the afternoon sun filters through the windows of the traditional tea room, casting gentle patterns on the tatami floor, you and Inosuke continue to converse. The conversation flows effortlessly, touching on topics beyond battles and training. Inosuke shares snippets of his past adventures, revealing a side of himself that is both fierce and surprisingly introspective. You listen intently, gaining a deeper understanding of the complexities hidden beneath his wild exterior.
"I never knew you had such a knack for storytelling,"
you comment, impressed by his vivid descriptions and animated gestures.
Inosuke shrugs nonchalantly.
"Eh, I just say it like it is. No point in sugarcoating things."
Your laughter fills the air, blending harmoniously with the soothing ambiance of the tea room. It's moments like these that create bonds beyond mere comradeship, forging a friendship built on mutual respect and genuine camaraderie. As the sun begins its descent, casting a warm glow that bathes the room in a golden hue, Inosuke leans back with a contented sigh.
"This... this was actually fun,"
he admits, a rare smile gracing his features.
You return the smile, feeling a sense of fulfillment in having shared this moment of tranquility with someone who's usually at the forefront of action and adrenaline. It's a testament to the depth of your bond, strengthened not just by shared battles but also by these quiet interludes of understanding and connection. With the last dregs of tea swirling in your cups, you both linger in the peaceful atmosphere, savoring the companionship that has grown between you. Inosuke's gaze meets yours, a silent acknowledgment passing between you—an unspoken promise of more adventures, both on the battlefield and in the serenity of a more quiet setting. Paying for the drinks with the coins Uzui had given you (which he liked to tease you about by calling it an allowance until you start earning your own), you and Inosuke left the shop and bid the owner and the other woman farewell, thanking them for their hospitality. As you made your way back towards the train station, you and Inosuke remained quiet until regrouping with the others.
Standing on the platform, blending in with the crowd of passengers waiting to board, the tension in the air grew as the moment you'd all been waiting for finally arrived. The demon defeated last night was merely a grunt in terms of the demon rankings. He was taken down too easily, confirming Rengoku's suspicions that the real threat was still present. Armed with this knowledge, each member of your team remained vigilant, scanning the surroundings for any signs of suspicious activity. Tanjiro's eyes darted around, his senses sharp as he kept a watchful eye on the passengers. Zenitsu's nervous energy seemed to intensify, but he remained focused on the group, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. Inosuke's keen instincts kept him alert, his gaze sweeping the area for any potential threats as he paced back and forth.
As the train finally arrived and passengers began boarding, the atmosphere grew even more tense. Inosuke's attention was immediately captured by the locomotive, his excitement and wonder palpable as he charged at the hulking ton of metal. He kicked and slammed his fists against it, mistaking it for some sort of giant beast. Zenitsu hurriedly intervened, explaining that the train wasn't a threat and trying to restrain Inosuke to ensure he boarded with the rest of the group. Tanjiro, who also hadn't seen a train before, stared at it in awe and advised Inosuke not to attack things, especially if this were some kind of spirit of the land. Zenitsu's expression turned vacant as he reiterated that the train was merely a mode of transportation, not a creature, muttering under his breath that they were way too sheltered—calling them
"country bumpkins"
and
"mountain dwellers."
As soon as you all boarded the train, Inosuke's wild nature was on full display once again. He rushed to a window, pounding his fists against the glass before managing to roll it open and stick his head out, laughing and shouting excitedly. You quickly intervened, pulling him back into his seat and firmly holding onto his hands between the both of you. At first, Inosuke protested vehemently, squirming to break free, but eventually, he relented, the tension in his body gradually easing as he settled down. It was an unspoken agreement that you would sit with Inosuke, given your knack for calming him down compared to the others. Tanjiro settled himself by Rengoku's side, taking the seat right next to the window. Across from them, Zenitsu positioned himself near the box containing Nezuko, which was also nestled against the window.
With a moment of quiet, you found yourself lost in thought. You've been adept at pushing away negativity about yourself or the situations you find yourself in, knowing such thoughts would hinder your growth as both a person and a Demon Slayer.
However, there were still moments when doubt crept in, much like now.
With the knowledge of a powerful demon in your midst, you couldn't help but question if you had made the right choice in joining. Rengoku hadn't initially chosen you, but he allowed you to join the group despite your sneaking along, too determined to be left behind. It was an opportunity to prove yourself once more, but that was before the realization that a member of the Twelve Kizuki or possibly an Upper Rank was involved. Had you known that beforehand, your decision might have been different. You had only truly faced one demon, discounting your encounters with the Drum Demon, the grotesque one with the long tongue, and the Spider Demon on Mount Natagumo. Your life has been in danger multiple times now, and the way tonight had unfolded, with you being captured and your life hanging by a thread, it left you feeling less than pleased with yourself.
Now, you feared that you would only get in the way and distract the others. They had so much more experience and their own set of unique skills. Your own abilities were limited; you had only completed your first and only mission, largely relying on luck rather than skill.
What hope do you have of accomplishing anything? Why are you here? Could this possibly be the end of the line for you as a Demon Slayer? If things don't go as planned, it could turn bad very quickly for you, which is highly likely given the danger that awaits. Moreover, if you do happen to lose your life, you'll never get the answers to all of the questions you still had—most notably, who you were and who you would have become. And that upset you a lot more than you cared to admit. It seemed foolish and selfish to worry about your own concerns, when you should be more focused on how those around you would be affected.
The others were caught up in their own conversations, but the uneven, loud sound of your heart caught Zenitsu's attention.
Leaning into the aisle, he waved to you with a low voice.
"Is something wrong, Y/n-chan? You seem upset..."
"It's nothing to worry about. I'm just being silly, as usual,"
you began, intending to shift the topic away.
However, the way he looked at you with such interest and patience made you forget your original intention. You felt as if you could be more vulnerable with him, something you and the others had contemplated not too long ago—sharing your hopes and fears, and being more open with each other.
"It's just... I've struggled a lot with myself. My past, the present, and future are all so uncertain, and it scares me. And then I think about everyone else—you, Tanjiro-kun, Inosuke-kun, Uzui-san, Rengoku-san, Mitsuri-san, Shinobu-san, Giyuu-san, and even all of the other people I've barely spoken to... and I consider how all of your problems must be a thousand times more difficult. And yet... you all are so brave and carry on working hard every day. How do you do it?"
Zenitsu remains quiet for a few moments before uttering,
“I don’t know. To be honest, I’m not that brave or strong… and I think your problems are more significant than mine. I’m just a guy with a lot of insecurities! But you? You have so much on your shoulders, yet you carry it so well. You are brave, smart, and strong… more than I’ll ever hope to be. But I’m working on it and that’s all anyone can do, right?”
"Yeah,"
you murmur contemplatively, a soft smile spreading across your face
. "I suppose so. But you're also all those things and more."
Zenitsu's expression softened, a glimmer of gratitude shining in his eyes as he absorbed your words.
"Thank you,"
he whispered, his voice tinged with genuine appreciation.
"It means a lot coming from you."
As the conversation lingered in the air, you couldn't help but reflect on the bond you shared with Zenitsu and the rest of your companions. Each of them brought their own struggles and strengths to the table, forming a mosaic of courage and resilience that inspired you daily.
"I think,"
Zenitsu continued, breaking the momentary silence,
"we all find strength in different ways. Sometimes, it's in the support of those around us. Other times, it's in the small victories we achieve, no matter how insignificant they may seem."
His words resonated with you deeply, reminding you of the countless times you'd found solace in the camaraderie of your friends or drawn strength from overcoming challenges, no matter how daunting they appeared at first.
"I guess we're all on this journey together,"
you mused, a sense of unity and determination settling within you.
"Facing our fears, embracing our vulnerabilities, and growing stronger with each step."
Zenitsu nodded in agreement, a gentle smile playing on his lips.
"Exactly. And as long as we're by each other's side, I believe we can face anything that comes our way."
Reflecting on the unexpected depth of your conversation with Zenitsu, you marveled at the intricate tapestry of connections that had woven itself around you. It was true—you and Zenitsu were vastly different individuals, each with your own quirks, fears, and dreams. Yet, beneath those surface differences lay a common thread of humanity, shared experiences, and a mutual desire for growth and understanding. As you pondered this, memories flickered through your mind—the gentle kindness of Tanjiro, the impassioned determination of Inosuke, the charismatic flair of Uzui, the unwavering resolve of Rengoku, the infectious optimism of Mitsuri, the strategic brilliance of Shinobu, and the silent strength of Giyuu.
Each of them brought something unique to the table, enriching your journey in ways you never could have imagined.
It was indeed fascinating how people from diverse backgrounds and with differing personalities could come together, united by a common purpose or shared experiences. In those moments of connection and understanding, you realized that true bonds transcended superficial differences, weaving a tapestry of friendship and camaraderie that was as beautiful as it was unexpected. As you sat there, basking in the warmth of companionship and shared understanding, you couldn't help but feel grateful for the diverse array of people who had become an integral part of your life's journey. It was a testament to the power of empathy, compassion, and open-mindedness—a reminder that in a world filled with differences, it was a shared humanity that ultimately bound you all together.
You weren't ever alone in your thoughts or feelings.
Everyone encountered their own challenges, but with the support and encouragement from those closest to you, and by having faith in yourself, you were capable of accomplishing anything.
This reminder helped ease your mind, if only a little bit.
"Thanks, Zenitsu... I'm glad we got to spend some time together today and had this talk."
He instantly noticed the drop in honorifics, his eyes widening slightly as he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Ever since you had begun learning Japanese, you'd made an effort to always be formal and use proper speech when speaking with others. You had not once omitted the use of honorifics and had always addressed him and everyone else by their names politely, even though you were friends. Sure, you had given some of them nicknames, which was a sign that you already felt somewhat close and comfortable with them, but it wasn't quite the same. This was different. Dropping the suffix implied a higher degree of intimacy and was generally reserved for one's spouse, younger family members, social inferiors (such as a teacher addressing students in traditional arts), close friends, and confidants.
So did you understand the significance of this change?
Did it mean that you felt an even closer, deeper connection with them... with him?
He had always sensed your strong feelings for your friends, yet this change was unexpected. He wasn't certain if you had addressed the others differently too, but regardless, he welcomed the shift. His heart sang with joy, thrilled that your relationship was evolving. Despite his feelings for you, having close friends who supported each other unconditionally, where they could share their deepest thoughts and emotions, was something he had longed for.
And this moment felt like a solidification of your bonds.
"Yeah, me too,"
Zenitsu whispered quietly in agreement.
"You know, if you ever need someone to talk to in the future, you don't have to hold it all in or look very far; I'll be there to listen to you anytime. I've got great ears,"
he playfully added, hoping to lift your spirits further.
Smiling, you felt a lightness in your chest as warmth spread from within. You locked eyes with him, nodding as you shared a heartwarming moment. Grateful for him and your friendships with others you've connected with on this wild journey, you allowed previous thoughts to drift to the back of your mind. Lost in reflection on your conversation, you sat in silence for a few minutes until the train lurched forward, jolting you back to the present. Glancing past Inosuke, who seemed to have dozed off for a quick nap, you noticed the shift as the walls and windows vibrated.
Then, you were moving.
The train journey was filled with an undercurrent of anticipation. The rhythmic sound of the train's wheels on the tracks added to the suspense, the train car filled with a mix of ordinary conversations from other passengers and nervous glances exchanged among your group. As the train chugged along, the landscape outside blurred into streaks of green and brown. Each member of your team was on high alert, their senses attuned to any unusual movements or sounds. Tanjiro's hand rested on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at a moment's notice. Zenitsu muttered prayers under his breath, his eyes darting from window to window.
As the minutes passed, the tension seemed to thicken, creating an almost tangible barrier between your group and the other passengers. The air was heavy with unspoken anticipation, the feeling that danger could strike at any moment hanging over everyone like a dark cloud. Suddenly, a loud thud echoed through the carriage, causing everyone to jump in their seats. Tanjiro and Inosuke (who snorted as he startled awake) were instantly on their feet, scanning the carriage. Zenitsu's hair stood on end as he yelped, his instincts screaming danger.
But it was just a suitcase that had fallen from an overhead compartment, the loud noise a result of a passenger's carelessness.
As the tension eased slightly, a collective sigh of relief swept through the carriage. However, the incident served as a stark reminder that in your line of work, danger could lurk in the most unexpected places. With renewed vigilance, your group settled back into their seats, knowing that the journey ahead would require your utmost focus and readiness. However, with no sign of danger yet, you all began to relax a bit. The rhythmic hum of the train's engine and the gentle sway of the carriage became almost hypnotic, causing eyelids to grow heavy and tense muscles to unwind. Tanjiro leaned back in his seat, his expression softening as he gazed out the window at the passing scenery. Zenitsu's nervous energy seemed to dissipate, his shoulders relaxing as he closed his eyes briefly.
Breaking the silence, Tanjiro turned to Rengoku with a question.
"Rengoku-san, there's something I've wanted to ask you."
"Oh? What is it?"
Rengoku replied, leaning back against the cushioned seat with his arms crossed over his chest.
"It's about my father."
"What about your father?"
"Well, he was a frail man..."
Tanjiro started, pausing briefly.
Rengoku's tone showed interest as he waited for Tanjiro to continue.
"Was he now?"
"And yet, he could perform a Kagura dance in freezing weather."
"Well, good for him!"
Rengoku commended.
Tanjiro's expression became more focused, a slight pinch appearing in his brow.
"And then... Hinokami Kagura, the dance—I found myself doing it just like my father used to during a crucial moment in a battle. My sword had lit up in flames, which has left me wondering if the dance is perhaps related to Flame Breathing. I was hoping if you knew anything about it, you'd be willing to tell me?"
"Certainly!"
Rengoku said with a smile, continuing smoothly.
"But I don't!"
"Huhhh
?"
Tanjiro's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features at the unexpected answer. He had assumed that anyone knowledgeable about the Hinokami Kagura dance would have some connection to Flame Breathing techniques, especially considering his own experience with the dance on Mount Natagumo. Recalling the intense battle with Rui, where his sword had ignited in flames during the performance of the Hinokami Kagura, Tanjiro couldn't help but wonder about the significance of this dance. The memories of that battle, the flames engulfing his blade as he fought with unwavering determination, flashed through his mind.
"I have not even heard of that dance, not once. However, taking this Kagura and adapting it for battle is commendable! But I'm afraid there's nothing more to say about it."
"Wait, hang on. Are you sure you can't think of anything?"
"Mhm!"
Rengoku gave a singular nod.
"I can, however, tell you this much. Flame Breathing, alongside the other techniques, has a long history. Flame, Water, Wind, Stone, and Thunder—the breathing fundamentals—all other techniques branched off from those five. Like how Mist is a branch of Wind. So, perhaps it's not too far off to assume that dance is related somehow. Now, my question to you is this: what color is your sword?"
"Oh, uhh, my sword is black,"
Tanjiro said with an inquisitive edge to his voice, curious as to where Rengoku was going with this.
"Is it now? How unfortunate!"
Tanjiro sweatdropped at Rengoku's reply, his face scrunching up.
"Why do you say that...?"
"I've yet to see one with a black sword become a Hashira! I also hear those with such a sword have no idea what to master."
Rengoku, noticing Tanjiro looking at a loss, did his best to reassure him.
"But there's no need to worry; I can train you alongside Y/n-san once this mission is completed!"
Perking up, Tanjiro smiled gratefully for the Hashira's generosity in offering to train him beyond his current abilities. He, Inosuke, and Zenitsu have already somewhat trained with you under Rengoku's supervision, however, it was more like they were tagging along and served as figures of support. Exercising and training together was proving to be beneficial, so the thought of delving deeper, learning more, and becoming even stronger under the Flame Hashira's care was a welcomed idea. With a thoughtful expression, Tanjiro resolved to discover the mysteries surrounding the Hinokami Kagura dance and its potential connections to Flame Breathing techniques. He felt a renewed determination to uncover the secrets of his heritage and unlock the dormant powers within him.
Before long, a man entered the carriage, his voice devoid of emotion as he methodically checked tickets and clipped them, the sound of his ticket puncher clipping through the air like a warning bell. Approaching your group, the man inspected your tickets with a cold efficiency, punching them promptly before leaving the carriage. His departure left behind a lingering sense of discomfort, as if his presence had cast a shadow over your heads. But the absence of any further incidents left you feeling perplexed and on edge. The knowledge that a demon could be hiding among the passengers, possibly disguised as a normal person, kept you vigilant and constantly scanning your surroundings. Despite your best efforts, no particular person stood out as suspicious or caught your attention in a significant way. Each passenger seemed to blend into the background, their faces and actions appearing mundane and unremarkable.
The lights began to flicker overhead, grabbing everyone's attention as they momentarily cut out completely, shrouding the carriage in darkness.
In that moment of darkness, Tanjiro's senses heightened. He caught a faint but overpowering scent, a hint of something ominous that made his skin crawl. As the lights came back to life, Rengoku stood from his seat and swept out into the aisle, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The sudden movement and the Hashira's alert stance sent a ripple of tension through the group. It was clear that Rengoku had sensed something amiss, his instincts as a seasoned Demon Slayer kicking in. Once again, the atmosphere in the carriage shifted instantly, the brief moment of calm replaced by a palpable sense of danger. Tanjiro exchanged quick glances with you and the other two, every one of you silently preparing for whatever threat might emerge.
In the blink of an eye, a colossal demon with two faces materialized. A wave of fear and panic swept through the carriage as everyone froze, their instincts urging them to create as much distance as possible. They pressed themselves against each other and the windows of the train, desperation and terror evident in their eyes. Your heart raced as you took in the monstrous creature before you. Its grotesque faces exuded a menacing aura, and its sheer size cast a shadow of dread over the passengers. The air crackled with tension as everyone braced themselves for the imminent danger. Rengoku, ever the stalwart Hashira, stood firm in the face of the demon's sudden appearance. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.
"What a giant,"
Rengoku remarked coolly, his voice steady despite the tension in the air.
"Did you use a Blood Demon Art? It was difficult to detect you..."
The demon groaned, its massive form taking a singular lumbering step forward as it stared him down. Rengoku's eyes narrowed, his focus sharpening as he observed the creature's movements. He pulled his sword from its sheath, the metal gleaming in the dim light of the train. With practiced ease, he smoothly swung the blade in front of him to point directly at the demon. The air around him seemed to shift as the temperature rose, a testament to the intensity of his courage and strength.
"Know this, if you bare your fangs at the innocent, I will see your bone turn to ash with my bright red blade of fire!"
The demon roared, its two faces contorting into a menacing expression as it leaned forward, its arms spread out in an attempt to intimidate its adversaries. Without wasting any time, it launched itself towards Rengoku with surprising speed, closing the distance between them in a matter of moments.
'Flame Breathing: First Form—Unknowing Fire!'
As the demon closed in, Rengoku reacted with lightning-fast reflexes. In a display of remarkable agility and skill, he leaped forward to meet the creature head-on. With a powerful swing of his sword, the blade sliced through the air with precision, aimed directly at the demon's colossal form. In that decisive moment, the sword connected with the demon's neck, cutting through with a swift and resounding impact. The force of the blow was immense, causing the demon's head and body to separate, their trajectory sending them flying in different directions. Before the passengers' eyes, the demon erupted into a cloud of ash, dissolving into nothingness as the threat it posed vanished in an instant. The train car was filled with a stunned silence, broken only by the echoes of the battle that had just taken place. Rengoku landed gracefully, his sword still raised in a defensive stance as he scanned the surroundings, ensuring that the threat was truly neutralized.
His breathing was steady, his demeanor calm yet focused.
"Amazing,"
Tanjiro murmured in awe.
"And with a single slice..."
Despite eliminating the demon, the danger was not yet over as Rengoku sensed another presence.
"There's still one more,"
Rengoku declared, his brow furrowing with determination. He called out to your group, urging everyone to follow him as he swiftly darted down the aisle into the next carriage.
"Come with me!"
Tanjiro immediately responded, following closely behind Rengoku. Inosuke wasted no time either, bounding after them with his usual enthusiasm. As for you and Zenitsu, the sudden turn of events left you momentarily stunned. However, the urgency in Rengoku's voice snapped you out of your shock. Exchanging glances, you both jumped from your seats and quickly pursued the others, not wanting to be left behind. As you moved through the train, passengers from the other carriage rushed past in a flurry of fear and panic, desperately seeking a safer place to hide. Entering the next carriage, your eyes fell upon yet another demon standing before Rengoku. Its long, spindly limbs allowed it to tower over everyone present, casting a menacing shadow in the dim light of the train. The air crackled with tension as Rengoku and the demon locked eyes, each readying themselves for the imminent clash.
"Agh! What is that thing?!"
Zenitsu whimpered as he cowered behind a seat.
"Its... its arms look so freaking long!"
Before anyone could react, Inosuke surged forward with his characteristic battle cry, steam blowing through the snout of his mask. He flipped into the air, drawing his twin blades as he closed in on the demon with remarkable speed. However, just as he was about to strike, the demon countered his attack with long appendages that bore a striking resemblance to the demon you had faced in the forest during your first mission. The clash of Inosuke's blades against the demon's deft defense echoed through the carriage, the force of the impact sending shockwaves rippling through the air. Inosuke gritted his teeth, pushing against the demon's formidable strength with all his might, but to no avail as he was swung to the side.
In a flash of movement, Rengoku darted forward and swiftly grabbed Inosuke mid-air, carrying him to the end of the carriage behind the demon and depositing him into a seat before swiftly returning to the fray. As the demon turned its attention towards you, its long claws slicing through the air, Rengoku acted with lightning speed. With a deft maneuver, Rengoku weaved around the demon's figure, effortlessly sweeping you up into his arms and out of reach of the demon's attack. In a blur of motion, he carried you down to the other end of the carriage where Tanjiro and Zenitsu stood motionless, the rush of air and adrenaline leaving you feeling dizzy and disoriented. The impressive speed at which Rengoku and the demon moved was astonishing, leaving you with barely enough time to process what had happened, let alone blink.
He just saved you, again!
As Rengoku safely set you down and turned back to face the demon, his unwavering focus and skill were on full display. The intensity of the battle reached its peak as Rengoku shot forward and engaged the demon in a fierce exchange of blows, his flame-based techniques illuminating the dark confines of the train car. Despite the chaos and danger, you couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at Rengoku's abilities and composure in the face of such a formidable opponent.
With each swift movement and calculated strike, he proved why he was a Hashira, a pillar of strength and resolve in the ongoing battle against demons.
With a leveled swipe of his blade, Rengoku cut through the demon's neck with precision, delivering a decisive blow that ended the battle in mere seconds. The demon's colossal form crumbled to the ground, defeated by the Hashira's phenomenal skill and strength. Despite the brief yet intense fight, Rengoku remained composed and unruffled, not a single bead of sweat on his brow nor a hint of dishevelment in his appearance. His unwavering focus and mastery over his techniques were evident as he stood amidst the aftermath of the battle, his sword gleaming in the dim light of the train.
With his back facing you, he sheathed his sword, the metallic sound echoing in the now quiet carriage.
"That... That was totally cool, bro! Talk about genius swordplay,"
Tanjiro cheered, his fist pumping the air, an awestruck expression lighting up his features.
"Did you really mean it before? Please let me be your student!"
"Of course! Very well then,"
Rengoku grinned, his acceptance evident.
"I'll make you a fine swordsman!"
Zenitsu seized the opportunity.
"Can I join too?!"
"Yeah, me too!"
Inosuke chimed in enthusiastically.
They surrounded him with giddy expressions, excited at the prospect of truly growing stronger under Rengoku's careful and intensive guidance. He swelled with pride at their praise, chuckling as he announced that he would be more than willing to take them all in, causing them to jump around with joy. You couldn't help but smile and giggle along at the silly but endearing display, growing even fonder of your companions as the journey seemed to strengthen your bonds with every passing moment. Once the thrill of the moment has passed, you all make your way back to a less damaged carriage and promptly begin to fall into a mysterious, deep sleep.
After everyone passes out, the conductor from earlier rushes through the carriages until he reaches a halt and bows deeply to the floor. Before him stands a detached hand with a mouth and eyes, and he pleads to be reunited with his family in a blissful dream.
"Certainly. You did a fine job~"
The hand grins and, with a sickeningly sweet voice, grants his wish.
"Now, sleep forever!"
The man gasped, his eyes widening as an overwhelming sensation of pain took hold of him, causing his body to slump forward and fall to the floor with a soft thud. Nearby, a group of five people sat behind the hand, awaiting instructions patiently. The hand turned to them, its command clear as it ordered them to tie up the Demon Slayers' hands with ropes that it provided. These ropes were essential for them to connect with each of the Slayers and enter their dreams, but caution was urged to avoid touching them and risking premature awakening.
With the instructions given, the hand swiftly crawled away, making its way to the front of the train where it would await the culmination of its plans. Meanwhile, the people nodded in understanding and began to move, taking the ropes and approaching the group of Demon Slayers. Carefully, they tied the rough cords around their wrists, connecting themselves to the other end to facilitate the entity's intrusion into their dreams. The hand reached the front of the train and crawled outside, scaling the outer part to approach a figure standing on top. With a swift leap, the hand reattached itself to the figure—the demon that took over the Mugen Train—signaling the beginning of a sinister plan set in motion.
The demon, named Enmu, chuckled as he stared out into the distance and grinned.
"To die in the rapture of a dream, a blessing indeed! It doesn't matter how powerful a demon hunter you are; the spark that drives these beings comes from the heart—the human spirit! Stamp out their spiritual core and you can kill them just like that!"
He monologued, tilting its head back as it spread its arms, allowing the wind to blow around it and adding a dramatic flair.
"All human hearts work in the same fashion. Like delicate glasswork, they're so pitifully fragile and weak."
Tanjiro's eyes slowly opened as he found himself back in his mountain home, a serene and idyllic place surrounded by nature and covered in a thick blanket of pure white snow. He walked through the snow with labored breaths, his mind foggy and slow to catch up to the moment. Suddenly, he pulled his blade from its sheath and got into a defensive stance, turning in circles as he scanned his surroundings. Although he vaguely recognized the place, he was disoriented and on edge. He didn't remember how or why he was there. Something was off, yet he couldn't quite put his finger on why or what was going on.
A younger, higher-pitched voice broke through the cold, winter wind.
"Look! Brother's back home!"
Tanjiro whirled around to find two of his younger siblings, Hanako and Shigeru, carrying a basket filled with sweet potatoes in the distance. Their eyes shone brightly as they grinned, waved with one hand, and questioned if he had sold all of the charcoal in the village. Tanjiro's shoulders instantly dropped, his blade falling to his side as he stared at them in silence for a few moments. His heart felt as if it were being squeezed inside his chest as a tidal wave of emotions crashed into him all at once—happiness, sadness, anger, and relief. With a shuddering breath, he dropped the blade and began to walk towards them, gradually picking up speed until he was sprinting. He couldn't stop himself from crashing into them, all three falling back into the snow as he draped himself over their bodies, wrapped his arms around them, and cradled them close.
He tried not to crush them beneath his weight, but it was extremely difficult to think about anything but the fact that he was holding his siblings once again at that moment.
He found himself crying, silent tears quickly coming to the surface of his eyes as he sat up and looked down at them. They blinked in surprise as they regarded him, their voices worried as they tried to ask him what was wrong. However, he couldn't answer them because he had no words. All he knew was that he could see them, hear them, and feel them.
They... were alive?
But of course they were, why wouldn't they be?
The tears fell, streaming down his face as he let out an anguished cry, one that felt as if it had been trapped inside him for a very long time. He really wasn't entirely sure why he was crying. Something was telling him that something horrible had happened, and yet... everything appeared to be perfectly fine. Despite the lingering sense of something feeling off, he was happy and slowly starting to forget why he had been so distraught in the first place.
A few minutes later, he found himself sitting inside his home, right in front of his mother as she listened to his younger siblings tell her about how he had acted a few minutes prior. The second oldest brother, Takeo, laughed as he teased Tanjiro, calling him an
"odd duck."
His mother looked at him with gentle eyes, her expression calm but with a subtle pinch in her brow.
"Well, maybe you're just exhausted, is all?"
she suggested with a soft voice.
"Don't worry about me, I'll be fine,"
he reassured with a small smile.
She reached out, her touch tender and full of love and care as she cupped his face.
"You don't have a fever, do you, dear? Don't push yourself. Why don't you just rest for today."
"Really, I'm alright,"
Tanjiro insisted with a wide smile.
She continued to look at him for a moment before smiling. Next thing he knew, Shigeru grabbed a piece of cloth and ran up to him, pulling it over his head and rubbing it around his hair. As Shigeru playfully tousled his hair, Tanjiro couldn't help but chuckle at the antics of his younger siblings. Their laughter filled the room, a warm and comforting sound that eased his worries and brought a smile to his face.
"Alright, alright, that's enough!"
Tanjiro laughed, trying to dodge Shigeru's attempts to mess it up further.
His mother watched the scene with a soft smile, her eyes sparkling with affection.
"Let him be, Shigeru. He's been through enough don't you think?"
she gently chided, though her tone was filled with love and amusement.
Reluctantly, Shigeru let go of the cloth and backed away, grinning mischievously.
"You're lucky, Tanjiro. Not every big brother gets such special treatment!"
he teased, earning giggles from the rest of the siblings.
His mother's gentle laughter and the playful banter of his siblings filled the room with a sense of comfort and warmth. Tanjiro closed his eyes briefly, savoring the simple joy of being surrounded by the people he loved. It was almost surreal; he was sure he was dreaming earlier—about what, he wasn't certain, but it must have been a nightmare—it all felt too real.
But nothing was wrong.
Everything was fine and as it should be.
He was home, his family was here, and that was all that mattered.
The day was bright and glowing, with gentle warmth radiating from the sun overhead. The land was green, full of life and sound as cicadas buzzed, birds sang, and a gentle breeze twisted through the branches of blooming trees. Everything was peaceful and beautiful. Zenitsu ran through a field, approaching an orchard lined with peach trees, an excited grin on his face. He looked back, meeting your wide eyes as you trailed behind him, and he squeezed your hand.
"Come on, hurry! These peaches are delicious; you have to try one. I'll make sure to get the best one there is! And with the white clover in bloom, I can make you a ring of flowers! I'm pretty good at it now—you'll see!"
"Really? That's amazing, Zenitsu! I'd love that,"
you laughed happily, smiling brightly.
"I can't wait!"
He felt as if he could leap into the sky and fly, his heart soaring as he saw your smile and heard the rhythmic beating of your heart. It matched his own, creating a symphony that blended with the sounds of nature unlike anything he'd ever heard. Before you, everything seemed dull and sounded the same. He found himself marveling at the intricacies of your being, discovering new wonders with each passing moment. Your laughter became the melody that danced through his thoughts, and your touch ignited a warmth that spread like wildfire, engulfing him in a cocoon of bliss.
In your presence, colors appeared more vibrant, and every breeze carried whispers of serenity. The world took on a magical hue, where time slowed to savor each shared glance, and every shared word felt like a precious gem in the tapestry of conversation. It was as though the universe conspired to paint a masterpiece, with each brushstroke echoing the depth of emotion felt in his heart. This connection, this inexplicable bond, felt like the culmination of a journey that led him to the very essence of joy and contentment.
With you, he feels not just alive, but truly awakened to the beauty of life itself. Each day becomes a chapter in a love story written in the stars, where every chapter surpasses the last in its depth and meaning. As he gazes into your eyes, he knows that this feeling, this indescribable sensation of being complete, is what poets and dreamers have sought to capture in their verses and musings for centuries.
If heaven were a place on earth, he was sure it was right here, in this moment with you.
"Of course! We'll have to cross a river, but don't worry, it's not too deep."
"A river?"
You query, a hint of fear lacing your words as you come to a slow stop.
"Umm, Zenitsu, this may be a little silly, but... I'm afraid of the water. It's cold, dark, and I can't swim all that well. What am I going to do?"
His brows shoot up as he listens to your fears, and he thinks quickly, trying to come up with a solution. He wanted to take you to the best spot across the river, but your fear of traversing the water yourself was evident. As he ponders, he lights up when an idea strikes him.
"It's fine! I'll just carry you on my back and jump over it; not even your toes will get wet!"
He grins and spins around, crouching down in front of you and waiting as you tentatively climb onto his back and wrap your arms around his neck. His own arms loop around your legs, securing you in place. The warmth of his embrace and the reassurance in his voice help ease your anxiety, replacing it with a sense of trust and excitement for the adventure ahead. As Zenitsu carries you on his back, you feel a rush of gratitude and admiration for his thoughtfulness.
He didn't question you or make you feel as if your fears were irrational, and you couldn't thank him enough for being so understanding.
His steps are steady, his presence reassuring, and the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your touch soothes any lingering nerves. As you approach the riverbank, the sound of rushing water grows louder. You can feel the anticipation building in your chest, a mix of nervousness and excitement intertwining like the branches of a tree reaching for the sky.
"Ready?"
Zenitsu's voice is filled with encouragement as he prepares to make the leap.
You nod, holding onto him a little tighter, your trust in him unwavering. With a burst of energy, Zenitsu propels himself forward, his muscles flexing as he leaps across the river. For a moment, it feels like time stands still as you soar through the air, the world a blur of colors and sensations. Then, with a gentle thud, you land on the other side, safe and dry as promised. You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, a smile spreading across your face.
"That was amazing!"
you exclaim, feeling a rush of adrenaline.
As Zenitsu sets you down on solid ground, you take a moment to appreciate the beauty of the scenery around you. The sun casts a warm glow over the landscape, illuminating the lush greenery and the sparkling river that you just crossed. You turn to Zenitsu with a heartfelt smile, overwhelmed by the experience and his unwavering support.
"Thank you so much, Zenitsu,"
you say, gratitude evident in your voice.
"I never would've made it across without you. You're incredibly brave and kind."
Zenitsu blushes slightly at your words, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish grin.
"Oh, it was nothing, really!
Anything for you, Y/n-chan."
As you both stood there, taking in the serene surroundings, a gentle breeze swept through the orchard, causing the peach blossoms to flutter like delicate confetti. The scent of spring filled the air, carrying with it a sense of renewal and possibility. With renewed enthusiasm, you both ventured into the orchard, the sweet scent of ripe peaches filling the air.
Zenitsu carefully selected the juiciest and most vibrant peach, handing it to you with a proud smile.
"Here you go, the best one for the best person."
As you bit into the fruit, its sweetness burst on your taste buds, and you couldn't help but let out a delighted hum. Zenitsu's eyes lit up at your reaction, finding joy in simple moments like these shared with you. After enjoying the peaches, Zenitsu skillfully wove a ring of delicate white clover flowers as promised, placing it on your finger with a flourish.
"Ta-da! What do you think?"
You admired the ring, a symbol of your day's adventure and the bond you shared with Zenitsu.
"It's beautiful, Zenitsu. Thank you for everything."
"Of course!"
Zenitsu leaned back against a tree trunk, a contented smile gracing his features as he watched you with affection.
"I'm glad we came here today. It's like a dream, being surrounded by all this beauty with you."
You nodded in agreement, leaning against him comfortably.
"It's perfect. I couldn't have asked for a better day."
As the day progressed, the sky painted itself in hues of orange, pink, and purple, a breathtaking display that mirrored the emotions swirling within Zenitsu. The vibrant colors seemed to reflect the spectrum of feelings he experienced in your presence—joy, excitement, and a deep sense of connection that filled his heart.
"I never want this day to end,"
Zenitsu whispered, his gaze soft and full of warmth as he looked at you.
Rumors spoke of a mysterious beast dwelling on a mountain, hidden within a cave. In the dark, damp, and cold depths of this very cave, your rag-tag group embarked on a journey in search of excitement and adventure. Discovering and defeating this legendary beast would bring fortune and fame to your group, earning you all the title of the greatest monster hunters. Inosuke, brimming with enthusiasm, took the lead with his boisterous energy resonating through the darkness. His loyal companions, affectionately referred to as "minions" by him (though they preferred "friends"), followed closely, their footsteps reverberating against the cavern walls.
Each member of the group bore a distinct animal resemblance, adding layers of whimsy and charm to their adventurous quest.
Inosuke's untamed spirit, of course, mirrored that of a wild boar, charging ahead with fearless energy. Tanjiro's kind and resilient nature embodied the traits of a tanuki, bringing warmth and adaptability to the team. Zenitsu's quick reflexes and nimbleness were reminiscent of a mouse, darting through challenges with surprising agility. Nezuko's quiet strength and protective instincts mirrored the gentle yet formidable nature of a rabbit, offering a sense of harmony and unity to the group. As for you, your marten-like swiftness and sharp intellect were invaluable assets, guiding the team through obstacles with finesse and precision.
Together, this eclectic blend of animal traits created a dynamic and unstoppable force, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead in the depths of the cave.
As the group delved deeper into the cave, Tanjiro and Zenitsu's sudden leap onto a rock caught Inosuke's attention, prompting him to halt the march and turn toward them with an expectant look. His hands rested on his hips as he awaited their explanation, curious about what had piqued their interest within the cave's depths. Tanjiro was the first to speak up, pointing further into the cavern as he informed Inosuke about the powerful entity lurking within. His voice carried a mix of caution and determination as he described the whereabouts of the threat they were about to face. Zenitsu nodded in agreement, offering his insights about the creature's rumored abilities and the challenges it might pose.
Inosuke grunted in acknowledgment, his excitement palpable as he eagerly led the group closer to the presence of the beast.
As they approached, the creature revealed itself to be a massive train with rows of legs resembling a millipede. It lay there, fast asleep and snoring loudly, completely unaware of the intruders in its domain. Inosuke's eyes gleamed with anticipation as he realized the advantage they had—a sleeping beast meant they could strike with the element of surprise. With a confident grin, he turned to his companions and ordered them to charge forward. Tanjiro and Zenitsu, spurred on by their leader's enthusiasm, sprang into action, running ahead with a comical determination.
However, you and Nezuko remained where you were, unmoving as you exchanged a knowing glance. While the prospect of facing a powerful creature was exciting, you both shared a preference for observing rather than engaging in the chaos. Finding a comfortable spot to sit, you settled down together, content to watch the events unfold from a safe distance.
Inosuke, noticing your reluctance, turned back with a hint of annoyance.
"Hey, don't fall behind, underlings!"
You and Nezuko simply shook your heads, choosing to stay back and observe the unfolding spectacle. Inosuke, not one to give up easily, reached into his pockets and pulled out a handful of acorns, their surfaces glittering in the dim light of the cave.
"Come on! Look, I'll give you these sparkly acorns!"
Inosuke's voice rose in a playful yet insistent tone as he waved the acorns enticingly.
You found yourself intrigued by the offer, the shimmering acorns reflecting the ambient light of the cave in a captivating manner. Nezuko, too, seemed curious, her gaze flickering between the acorns and the ongoing battle. However, both of you remained firm in your refusal. In response, Inosuke huffed and delved into his pockets once more, producing something wrapped in paper. With deft fingers, he untied the paper, revealing a handful of Mochi. It was his final attempt, knowing well of you and Nezuko's fondness for sweet treats alike.
"Alright, how about some of these? This is my last offer!"
Inosuke's playful persistence injected a lighthearted touch into the otherwise intense atmosphere. Despite your initial decision to stay back, the allure of the delicious, sweet treat sparked a sense of curiosity within you and Nezuko. With newfound enthusiasm, both of you joined the fray, bringing your unique strengths and abilities to the dynamic battle unfolding in the cave.
Your marten-like agility allowed you to dart around the cavern, landing precise strikes on the formidable foe. Nezuko's rabbit-inspired resilience and quick reflexes proved invaluable as she leaped and countered the creature's attacks with grace. Inosuke, fueled by his boar-like determination, charged headfirst into the battle, swinging his twin, serrated blades with ferocity. Tanjiro, embodying the spirit of a tanuki, utilized his resourcefulness and strategic thinking to analyze the creature's weaknesses, directing the group's attacks with precision. Zenitsu, despite his mouse-like timidness at times, tapped into his hidden potential, unleashing bursts of lightning-fast strikes that surprised everyone, including himself.
Together, your group formed a seamless synergy, each member complementing the others' strengths and compensating for weaknesses.
The battle raged on, the creature's massive form casting eerie shadows against the cave walls. Yet, with unwavering determination and teamwork, your group gradually wore down the beast's defenses. In a final coordinated assault the creature was defeated, its massive form crumbling to the ground. As the dust settled and the echoes of battle faded, a sense of accomplishment washed over your group. You had faced a legendary beast and emerged victorious, proving yourselves as a formidable team of monster hunters.
Inosuke cheered, rallying your group once more in search of greater challenges and adventure.
Kyojuro's eyes slowly opened, the warm morning light filtering through the shoji screens, casting gentle shadows in the traditional room. His gaze landed on the figure of his father lying on his futon before him, engrossed in a book. His father's back was turned to him, the rhythmic turning of pages filling the otherwise quiet room. He sat there, taking in the peaceful ambiance—the soft chime of wooden windchimes outside and the occasional call of a bird. However, the scene felt eerily familiar, evoking a sense of deja vu that tingled at the edges of Kyojuro's consciousness.
'Why am I here?'
His mind was swirling with questions. He couldn't recall how he ended up in this place, in this moment that felt both real and dreamlike. As he shifted slightly, his hand brushed against the hilt of his sword placed beside him to his right. The familiar touch brought a sudden clarity, as if a fog had lifted from his thoughts. A spark of realization ignited within him. He remembered now—he had come to report to his father about his achievement of becoming a Hashira, one of the highest ranks within the Demon Slayer Corps. The weight of his accomplishment settled on his shoulders, mingling with the sense of deja vu that lingered in the air. Kyojuro took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation he had been waiting for—an opportunity to share his achievement with his father and seek the praise and approval of the former Flame Hashira.
However, his father's response shattered his expectations and left him reeling with disbelief and hurt.
"So what if you've become a Hashira,"
his father's words pierced through the air, devoid of the warmth and encouragement Kyojuro had hoped for.
The indifference in his tone was like a cold gust extinguishing the flames of Kyojuro's pride and accomplishment. His eyes widened in shock as his father continued, the words cutting deeper than any blade.
"Worthless... it means nothing. You'll still never amount to anything. Neither you, nor I..."
The weight of those words hung heavily in the air, crushing Kyojuro's spirit and leaving him speechless. He had sought validation and approval, but instead, he was met with dismissal and disdain from the one person whose opinion mattered most to him. His father's rejection felt like a betrayal, a rejection of all the effort, sacrifices, and dreams Kyojuro had poured into becoming a Hashira. The flames of determination that had fueled his journey now flickered weakly, threatened by the chilling indifference of his father's words. A tumult of emotions surged within Kyojuro—anger, sadness, and a profound sense of disappointment. He had yearned for his father's pride, but all he received was a harsh reminder of his inadequacy in his father's eyes.
Taking a moment to compose himself, Kyojuro swallowed the lump in his throat and squared his shoulders.
He couldn't help but reflect on the drastic change in his father's demeanor. The man who had once been the Flame Hashira, full of passion and enthusiasm for the ways of the sword, had seemingly abandoned that part of himself overnight. It was a stark contrast to the father who had raised them both with such fervor and dedication. He remembered the days when his father would regale them with tales of his battles, instilling in them a deep respect for the Demon Slayer Corps and the responsibilities that came with being a swordsman. His father's fiery spirit had been a source of inspiration, driving Kyojuro to pursue excellence and strive for greatness.
But something had shifted.
One day, his father had simply walked away from it all, leaving behind the life of a swordsman without explanation. The man who had once been so passionate and driven was now distant and uncaring, his enthusiasm replaced by an unsettling detachment. At first, Kyojuro couldn't comprehend what had caused this drastic change in his father as he was still quite young back then. It was as if a fire had been extinguished, leaving behind only ashes of what once burned brightly. It wasn't until later that Kyojuro pieced together the fragments of their family's shattered reality. It was the passing of their mother that had shattered their world.
Her absence created a void so profound that even the strongest flames of passion and determination couldn't fill it.
The burden of grief was too heavy for his father to bear alone. It weighed down on him, eroding the vibrant spirit that had defined him. He retreated into himself, closing off the parts of him that had once been filled with life and purpose. Kyojuro felt a mix of emotions—grief for his mother's loss, sadness for his father's withdrawal, and a deep longing for the days when their family was whole. He understood now that their father's distant demeanor wasn't a reflection of his feelings towards Kyojuro's achievements but rather a reflection of his own internal struggles and pain.
Kyojuro's heart still heavy with his father's harsh words, he silently excused himself from the room, closing the shoji doors with a gentle slide.
Despite the crushing blow to his spirit, a spark of determination remained ignited within him. He refused to let his father's words define him or diminish his accomplishments. Stepping out onto the wooden veranda, he felt the cool breeze against his skin, a stark contrast to the turmoil within him. As he stood there, lost in thought, his younger brother Senjuro shuffled around the corner and approached him with a hopeful smile.
"Brother! Did your news make father happy?"
Senjuro asked eagerly, unaware of the emotional storm brewing within Kyojuro.
"I hope... when I become a Hashira someday, that father will acknowledge me as well..."
Kyojuro's expression softened as he looked at his brother, realizing that Senjuro's innocence and admiration were a stark contrast to his own experience with their father. He wanted to shield Senjuro from the disappointment and rejection he had faced, but he also couldn't bring himself to lie.
"Not exactly, Senjuro,"
Kyojuro replied, his voice tinged with sadness as he kneeled down to Senjuro's level.
"To be honest... he was not happy. He said that it meant nothing."
Senjuro's smile faltered, concern creasing his brow.
"What? But... you're a Hashira now! That's amazing! Father should be proud of you."
He offered Senjuro a small, reassuring smile, grateful for his brother's unwavering support in the midst of their shared challenges.
"Thank you,"
Kyojuro expressed sincerely.
"Even so, his disapproval will not extinguish my passion. This flame in my heart burns strong; I'll never lose faith! Listen, Senjuro, k
eep this in mind,"
Kyojuro continued, his voice filled with conviction. He reached out, taking his younger brother's hand into his own and clasping them together.
"You have an older brother who believes in you. So, whatever path that you take, whatever our father or anyone else may say, you're going to succeed and become a fine man. Just keep that burning passion inside your heart!"
In that moment, standing on the veranda with Senjuro by his side, Kyojuro's thoughts were clouded with a mixture of sadness and affection. He longed for the days when his father's fiery spirit had lit up their home, and he couldn't shake the feeling of disappointment at the loss of that connection. Despite the distance that had grown between them, Kyojuro couldn't bring himself to give up on his father entirely. He held onto the hope that one day, they could bridge the gap that had formed, and his father would once again find the passion and enthusiasm that had defined him as the Flame Hashira.
Until then, Kyojuro resolved to continue walking his path with determination, honoring the legacy his father had left behind, even if it now seemed like a distant memory.
He would draw strength from the love and support of his brother Senjuro, the cherished memories of his mother, and those who genuinely appreciated his accomplishments. As tears brimmed the corners of Senjuro's eyes, Kyojuro felt a surge of protectiveness and love for his younger brother. They sought solace in each other's embrace, finding comfort in their shared bond and determination to navigate life's challenges together.
Pulling Senjuro close, Kyojuro whispered words of reassurance and encouragement.
"We'll support each other, Senjuro. No matter how difficult or lonely things may get, we'll do our best."
Senjuro nodded, finding strength in Kyojuro's words and the warmth of his embrace. They stood there, holding onto each other, their hearts united in a promise to face the future with resilience and unwavering determination.
In the midst of darkness, you stood alone, surrounded by an eerie void that seemed to swallow sound and light alike. Blinking your eyes in an attempt to adjust, you struggled to make sense of your surroundings. There was no sign of life, no sound except the steady rhythm of your own breathing and the faint thud of your heart. Questions raced through your mind, each one adding to the sense of confusion and disorientation.
What had brought you to this place?
Why were you here, enveloped in this unsettling emptiness?
You even questioned if you were truly alive or if this was some surreal afterlife.
As you stood in the darkness, grappling with uncertainty, a feeling of unease crept over you. The absence of any external stimuli heightened your awareness of the internal, the thoughts and emotions swirling within your mind. Fear, curiosity, and a primal instinct for survival battled for dominance, each emotion tugging at your consciousness. Time seemed to stretch and warp in the void, seconds feeling like minutes, and minutes feeling like hours as you struggled to find a foothold in this unfamiliar realm. The silence was deafening, pressing in on you like a heavy weight, amplifying the questions and doubts that raced through your mind.
But as the darkness of the realm enveloped you, a sudden realization dawned like a beacon of light amidst the shadows—you were dreaming.
It was a moment of clarity that cut through the confusion and uncertainty, offering a glimmer of understanding in the surreal landscape of your subconscious. The knowledge that this was a dream brought an odd sense of empowerment, a realization that the rules of reality need not apply in this ethereal realm. You became aware of the dream's fluidity, the potential to shape and manipulate the environment with the power of your thoughts alone. With this newfound awareness, you focused your mind, channeling your thoughts and intentions to navigate through the dream world's darkness.
The void around you began to shift and morph, responding to the subtle commands of your subconscious.
Colors seeped into the once pitch-black canvas, illuminating the dream with hues of vibrancy. Shapes materialized, taking the form of various figures. Trees twisted and danced with spectral light, casting intricate patterns on the dream world's floor. Stars twinkled overhead, creating a celestial canopy that stretched into infinity. The moon, radiant and full, cast its silvery glow upon the dream world, bathing everything in a soft, ethereal light. You gazed up in awe as the lunar orb hung majestically in the sky, its surface adorned with craters and shadows that seemed to dance with the play of light and darkness.
But then, a shift occurred in the dream's cosmic ballet.
As if on cue, the sun began to descend from its celestial throne, its golden rays piercing through the lunar glow. You watched in fascination as the sun and moon converged, their paths intersecting in a rare celestial dance. With bated breath, you witnessed the breathtaking moment of an eclipse—the sun slipping behind the moon, creating a stunning spectacle of light and shadow. The moon, usually a beacon of cool radiance, now took on an otherworldly hue as it briefly obscured the sun's brilliance.
As you watched the celestial bodies converge, a deep understanding washed over you—the inherent balance and harmony between light and darkness, two sides of the same cosmic coin.
The sun, symbolizing warmth, vitality, and illumination, represented the light that guides and enlightens. Its radiant rays painted the world with brightness, offering clarity and vision to those who basked in its glow. Yet, as the sun slipped behind the moon during the eclipse, its brilliance momentarily dimmed, reminding you of the ephemeral nature of light and the inevitability of shadows. The moon, with its cool, serene glow, embodied the mystery, intuition, and introspection found within darkness. It held secrets and depths waiting to be explored, casting a gentle luminescence that whispered of hidden truths and unseen realms.
In this cosmic spectacle, you saw a reflection of your own inner duality—the interplay between light and darkness within your being.
Just as the sun and moon harmonized in their dance, so too did the contrasting elements within you find equilibrium and unity. You recognized that both light and darkness were essential parts of the universal balance, each contributing to the richness and depth of existence. As the eclipse unfolded, you felt a sense of acceptance, as you tried to embrace all aspects of yourself—the light that shines brightly and the shadows that lend depth and complexity. It was also a subtle reminder that even in the darkness, light would always remain and shine brightly, now matter how much the void tried to dim it.
‘ʸᵒᵘ ᵃʳᵉ ˢᵘʳʳᵒᵘⁿᵈᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ᵈᵃʳᵏⁿᵉˢˢ, ᵇᵘᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ʰᵒˡᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ˡᶦᵍʰᵗ ʷᶦᵗʰᶦⁿ—ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᶠᵒʳᵍᵉᵗ…’
Closing your eyes, a cacophony of emotions, sounds, and colors assaults your senses. Amidst this sensory overload, you suddenly feel a sharp, piercing pain in your abdomen, which gradually dulls into a throbbing ache. With a gasp, you open your eyes to see a blooming splotch of red spreading from your stomach, a sight that steals the air from your lungs and leaves you reeling in unbearable agony. As you stagger, a ghostly hand slowly retreats from your body, leaving behind a gaping hole, and you collapse to your knees. Your head spins, and your vision blurs as the world threatens to fade into darkness, the loss of blood taking its toll.
Why did this seem familiar?
As the overwhelming sensations and pain engulf you, it feels oddly familiar, as if etched into your very being long before this moment. However, the hows and whys of this sensation elude your grasp, leaving you bewildered and on the verge of panic. In the midst of this swirling turmoil, a sudden realization pierces through the haze. The body you were looking at, the one experiencing this excruciating pain, is not your own. It belongs to someone else entirely.
As your vision briefly clears, your widened eyes lock onto the bright, fiery haori draped over the figure before you—Rengoku.
Your mind struggles to make sense of the surreal scene unfolding before you, the realization sinking in like a heavy stone dropped into water. You are witnessing the events through the eyes of another, and that other is none other than Rengoku, the Flame Hashira whose presence commands respect and awe. Your mentor and friend. The pain in your abdomen, once foreign and bewildering, now takes on a deeper meaning as you understand the gravity of the situation.
You are experiencing Rengoku's final moments, the intense battle and the fatal blow that would bring him to his knees.
Through Rengoku's eyes, you see flashes of memories—a lifetime dedicated to protecting others, mastering the flame-breathing technique, and facing countless adversaries with unwavering courage. His indomitable spirit and unwavering resolve leave an indelible mark on your soul, even as the world around you grows dimmer. In this fleeting moment of connection, you share in Rengoku's legacy, his passion for justice, and his unyielding dedication to the Demon Slayer Corps. As your vision fades into darkness, you carry with you the echo of his fiery spirit, a testament to his bravery and sacrifice that will forever burn bright in the annals of history.
As the darkness grows thicker and your strength wanes, a sense of inevitability washes over you—this was the end.
'No...'
In an overwhelming surge of emotions, you find a reservoir of strength you never knew existed. Every fiber of your being rebels against the unfairness of Rengoku's fate, and a fierce determination takes root within you. His flame was not meant to be extinguished so quickly, not when he had so much more to give to the world. Summoning every ounce of strength and willpower, you refuse to let go. It's as if a dormant flame has been reignited within your soul, pushing you to defy the impossible. With gritted teeth and trembling hands, you struggle to rise against the overwhelming tide of darkness that threatens to consume you. Every movement is a battle, every breath a testament to your sheer will to keep going. You refuse to succumb to despair, to let the darkness win.
As you push forward, a glimmer of light appears on the horizon—a faint flicker of hope amidst the darkness. It's a beacon, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always a chance for redemption, for change. With renewed determination, you continue to fight, refusing to let Rengoku's legacy fade away. You carry his spirit within you, a guiding flame that propels you forward despite the odds and the heavy weight. And as you push through the darkness, you know deep within your heart that this is not the end, this is just the beginning of a new chapter. The pain, the loss, and the sorrow fuel your resolve, transforming into a blazing determination. With a final push, you reach the light, carrying both your and Rengoku's spirits through. With the power of your vision and the knowledge of what's to come, a newfound power of strength surges within you.
Perhaps Master Ubuyashiki was right all along; maybe the Corps did have hope in defeating the demons and the progenitor himself someday. You and the others were destined to meet—it was fate—and you, well... you were going to do your best to change it.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
It had all started as a precaution. Just a little routine to ensure no one was hurting his precious little Yuuji. It had become nearly clinical at this point; he’d wait until his son fell asleep, just after a bedtime story or after Gojo had peeked into his room, made sure he was fully asleep, and not reading manga past his bedtime. Then, he’d carefully pull the covers back. His squishy pink thighs were always warm, always so pliant, as he spread them open. His hand engulfed the boy’s thigh, even as Yuuji got bigger; his paler skin covered nearly the whole thing.
His pants would tighten then, but that wouldn’t be the first thing to make his dick twitch. Typically, he was fully hard by the time he’d crept back into the room. It was just a physical reaction. Nothing to think too much about. Honestly, who wouldn’t experience an erection when faced with his beautiful Yuuji’s innocent, peacefully slumbering face?
No one. That’s why he was doing this to begin with. To make sure no one took advantage of his darling little boy.
With practiced movements, he slid his hand up, feeling the tender flesh heat his palm as his fingers slid under the loose leg hole of his little shorts. His fingertips brushed the little fuzz beginning to fluff up his cunt, and his cock jumped greedily in his pants. He remembered when his son was still hairless, soft, and bare. But now, he’d begun acquiring the barest hint of a bush, and every night Gojo wanted nothing more than to stick his face in it and inhale the soft, unique musk of
Yuuji.
His fingers slipped between those puffy lips, beginning to massage soothing little circles into his folds and around the bundle of nerves sitting right above. It would hurt if Yuuji wasn’t wet beforehand, would sting raw, and probably affect the boy for the whole day after. Though the thought of his son going to school, shifting in his seat, and feeling the burn of his father’s inspection filled him with that gooey greed he hadn’t been able to shake in years.
Gojo watched the twitch in Yuuji’s pink brows, listened to the mumbling hum from his teen’s lips as Gojo slowly rolled his fingers over the boy’s stiffening clit. Yuuji’s head lolled to the side, his neck exposed by the wide collar of his shirt, showing off the light pink flush that collected there. Gojo’s teeth ached, wanting nothing more than to carve into that tender flesh and print his brand onto the boy.
His fingers slid down through the folds again, playing in the little wetness that collected there. He’d always responded so quickly, so well under his father’s loving hand. His pointer finger slipped in easily, gently fucking his fingertip in and out, just to the nail bed and back, until Yuuji grew slicker. He’d easily be able to slip right in, but Gojo was bad at restraint, always had been. So the urge to press in rough and fast, maybe add another finger or two, until his cock could bully into his tight little cunt, was almost impossible to resist.
After the first knuckle, his fingertips finally met that resistant little barrier in those insatiably tight walls. He skimmed it with fascination, gently stroking and prodding to make sure it was fully intact. It resisted his touch, fragile, sensitive.
Relief flooded Gojo’s chest, and he hummed in satisfaction. He should withdraw; he had no excuse to continue. This is where he’d usually stop, where he’d stopped in the past.
His finger slowly slid back, retreating from the little barrier, before carefully plunging back in. Gojo’s breathing sped up, his mouth flooding with drool as he felt the tight clench of those gummy walls as he shallowly finger fucked Yuuji. He firmly pressed the heel of his palm into his aching, hard erection and bit down a groan. He shouldn’t be doing this; he knows that once he crosses the line from innocent worry for his son’s virginity into the depravity he knows festers under his skin, he’ll go too far.
But this was
his
son,
his
Yuuji.
Who else could have the right to indulge in that tight, wet heat? It was his, after all.
His thoughts clouded over with the notion, the fact, that this overwhelming warmth was
his
, from his precious little Yuuji. His fingers twitched, ready to undo his belt and pull out his cock, to give in to the starvation in his gut, feed it a single morsel of indulgence by jerking himself off to the tight heat wrapped around his finger.
It would be the best orgasm of his life. He just knew it. Nothing would even come close.
“Dad?”
Gojo froze, his breath hitching in his chest as his eyes slowly trailed up from those beautifully pink lips to his son’s golden gaze. Lidded and hazy from sleep. His heart was stuttering in his chest, his fingertip still pressed to those squishy walls, his other hand wrapped around his belt buckle.
“What are you…?” Yuuji moved to sit up and seemed to realize the intrusion, gasping at the same time, his virginal walls clenched down on Gojo’s knuckle. Gooseflesh broke out all over Gojo’s entire arm, and he bit back a shiver.
Swallowing the drool in his mouth, his brain raced for an explanation. “Careful, you’ll hurt yourself if you move too much right now.” He told him with that warm voice that had come so easily when speaking to Yuuji. Golden eyes blinked and looked from his father’s gaze down to the intrusion in his body, where another little gasp fell from his lips.
“I-is something wrong with me?” Yuuji asked, his gaze zipping back up to meet his father’s innocently. His cheeks dusted a light pink, and Gojo could see the way he struggled to do what he was told, his walls clenching rhythmically around his thick knuckle, nearly crippling the man’s composure with the sensation.
“No!” Gojo reassured, a calm and warm smile falling across his lips despite his racing heart. “Nothing’s wrong, that’s actually what I was checking for.”
“W-what do you mean?” Yuuji asked, curious, swallowing hard. He was old enough now to realize that this kind of touch would typically be inherently sexual. Gojo wasn’t sure if they’d begun sex education in school yet or not; he hadn’t signed anything, so maybe not.
“I’m just examining you, silly.” Gojo hummed, his smile bright, like he wasn’t internally panicking at being caught fingering his own son. “I want to make sure you’re healthy down here! Usually, doctors don’t check until you’re an adult, so I was just trying to make sure you were progressing correctly.” He’d rehearsed this line enough for it to come out naturally; even without Yuuji’s full, unbridled devotion and trust, it had enough conviction to sway even someone else.
“Oh,” Yuuji responded, his big eyes blinking. “O-okay…” His face blushed even harder, and his walls clenched down again.
Interesting.
“Do I need to do anything…?” Yuuji trailed off, clearly trying not to wiggle his hips, the clench of his heat curious around the intrusion. Gojo was rendered breathless; the trust placed in him lit him up from the inside out. Yuuji had forever ruined him; there was no question.
“No,” Gojo responded, sitting up a little more, hiding the throbbing bulge in his pants. His boxers had gone slick, his aching cockhead weeping at the boy’s eager acceptance of his touch. “I’m almost done. Are you uncomfortable at all?”
Yuuji chewed on a perfectly pink lip and shifted his hips a little before shaking his head. “N-no, I’m fine.”
Perfect. God, he was so perfect.
A smile spread across Gojo’s lips, and he nodded his head. “Good, I’m glad. This can be hurtful at times, which is why I did it while you were asleep.” He slowly thrust the finger in a little more, having been caught while he was only halfway out. He carefully watched Yuuji’s face, watched the honest way his brows twitched and his lip quivered, face turning a deep crimson.
“If you want, though, I know how to make it feel really,
really,
good.” It was too much; he was going too far. He shouldn’t be offering such things, not now, not ever. It was bad enough that he’d gotten caught. If he takes it even further, who knows if Yuuji can even withstand it?
Yuuji looked up at him, swallowing hard again, his little Adam’s apple bobbing. “You do?”
He should back out, withdraw, and wish his son a good night while the oblivious innocence still hung in the air.
“Mm-hmm,” He confirms, and slowly begins rocking his finger in and out again, watching as Yuuji’s eyes widen a little before clenching shut, a whimper falling from quivering lips. He looked delectable like this, with his first sip of pleasure showing so expressively on his face.
Gojo wanted to devour him.
“Does this feel good?” He asked, sounding a little breathless as his son clenched tight on his finger, walls trembling in a way they never had before.
Yuuji peeked an eye open, looking up at his dad as he muffled soft little whimpers. “Y-yeah…”
Gojo’s heart fluttered in his chest at the honest little admittance, tingling excitement buzzing to life under his skin. “Good,” He breathed, increasing the speed a little. “You’re doing so good, baby.”
“Mm,” Yuuji responded, his body jolting a little from the sensation, curling forward slightly. “Th-thanks, Dad…”
Fuck
. He was perfect. So fucking perfect. His perfect little boy.
“I’m gonna try something else too, baby. Is that okay?” He asked eagerly, Yuuji’s walls growing wetter as pleasure coursed through his body.
“S-sure,” Yuuji replied, peaking up at him through his lashes as he panted little breaths.
Gojo’s teeth
ached.
“Tell me if you need me to stop, okay?” He barely got out the question before his thumb was swiping up that weeping slit, collecting the slick there as it drew up to gently circle Yuuji’s twitching clit. Yuuji gasped sharply, his body jolting so violently while his walls clenched down that Gojo’s finger was almost taken whole, which would’ve surely broken that little wall of skin. A monstrous shudder crawled up Gojo’s spine, and he watched as Yuuji’s brows twitched up on his forehead. The elbows that had been supporting him gave out as he flopped back against the pillow with a tremble.
“Hah!” He gasped, and Gojo felt like he could cum in his jeans just from the expression and that tight heat.
Fuck, why hadn’t he done this before?
How neglectful of him.
“Did that feel good, baby boy?” Gojo asked, pressing firmly against his clit with the pad of his thumb, watching as Yuuji’s body arched and convulsed against his sheets. Yuuji’s eyes cracked open to look at him, and he nodded with a little whimper. Gojo’s heart beat violently against his ribs, and he circled his son’s clit with his nail, enraptured by the way Yuuji’s face flew through a thousand pleasured expressions in a single second.
“D-dad,” Yuuji gasped, his hips wiggling away just a little. “I-it feels a little hot…”
“Hmm?” He hummed, not letting up his touch, focusing more on his clit than thrusting his finger in and out. He wouldn’t want to cause the boy pain by breaking his hymen right then and there, so he made sure that half of the length Yuuji could take was withdrawn to avoid any accidents. “Does it burn, baby? Doesn’t it feel good?”
“Hm!” Yuuji bit down on a moan, muscles twitching. “Y-yeah, it does… It really burns…”
“Trust me, Yuu, just endure it a little bit, and it’ll feel really good right after, okay?” Gojo coaxed, in disbelief that his son was already this close to an orgasm. Had he ever had one? Would Gojo be his first?
His cock jumped, his jeans slicked further, and his thumb moved mindlessly as it pressed and swirled around the trembling clit.
“O-okay…!” Yuuji gasped, his chest heaving as his spine began arching off the sheets. “O-oh, hmm!”
“That’s it,
good boy
…” Gojo breathed, growing lightheaded as he felt Yuuji’s walls clench down, strangling his finger tip in harsh convulsions as his orgasm hit him.
“– Mm! D-daad…” Yuuji cried, his shoulders trembling as his hands fisted the comforter, pulling and ripping at it as he was completely overwhelmed by his orgasm.
Gojo let up on the little bud during the last few waves, not wanting to overstimulate him any further or cause him pain. With a hint of reluctance, he also pulled his finger from the clenching heat. It was best to end it here.
He sat up and watched as Yuuji gasped for little breaths, his chest heaving up and down, his face flushed a deep red. He looked beautiful, painted in the palette of pleasure. Gojo wanted to run his fingers right across and muddy the colors further.
“You did so well,” Gojo praised, leaning down to press a kiss to Yuuji’s sweaty forehead, his dry hand smoothing the fluffy pink hair back. “Such a good boy.”
“T-thank you,” Yuuji responded in a little voice, still trying to catch his breath.
God, how come he hadn’t done this sooner?
“You should get some sleep.”
Before I keep you up all night.
“Dad?” Yuuji called, and Gojo watched as those little teeth worried at his little lip. “H-how often do you do this?”
Gojo swallowed thickly, and he swiped more hair from the boy’s forehead. “Every night,” He responded honestly, watching as Yuuji’s eyes widened a little, cooling cheeks burning bright red once more.
“O-okay…” He said in that quiet little voice. “C-can I be awake for it, from now on?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck,
fuck.
Gojo was going to absolutely ruin him. Was going to eat him
alive.
“Yeah,” He responded breathlessly, “Of course you can, baby. Dad will take good care of you every night.”
Yuuji smiled, kind and warm, the way he always had, but his tired gaze carried a hint of eagerness. “Can’t wait.”
Gojo was so, so
fucked.
His cock jumped in his pants, begging for attention as he kissed his son’s head.
“Goodnight. I love you,” Gojo whispered, pulling the blankets back up.
“Night, love you too,” Yuuji responded sleepily, his eyelids drooping as he turned on his side and nuzzled into his pillow.
Gojo wisely decided to turn around, then and there, and walk straight out the door as if nothing on that bed interested him anymore. If he hadn’t, Yuuji would be up all night, or passed out for half of it while Gojo ruined his body.
The door shut quietly behind him, and his eyes stared at the floor as he tried desperately to comprehend everything that had just happened.
“Can’t wait.”
–
The next day passed smoothly, without anything seeming different between them. Probably because the two were already irrevocably close, compared to most parents and their children. For one thing, Yuuji was already in high school, and he still enjoyed hanging out with Gojo. At the mall, the arcade, during festivals, all of it. Sure, Yuuji had friends; he hung out with them almost every day.
But he’d turned down lots of hangout invitations on days when Gojo was out of work by the time he got out of school. Even if all they did was lie on the couch watching their movie collection for the tenth time. Yuuji was content with being around his dad.
Gojo wouldn’t have it any other way.
That night, they’d had dinner and watched a movie on the couch. Yuuji was already drowsy, swaying gently in place with a soda in his hand. Gojo couldn’t help but smile, grabbing the can from him to place on the table.
“Wasn’t done…” Yuuji mumbled, his empty hand closing around the phantom can that’d been there before. Gojo chuckled, kissing the top of his head.
“Yeah, you are. C’mon, let’s go to bed.” He coaxed, humming as he stood, pulling his son up by the wrist.
“Okay,” He said with a yawn, stumbling as he was tugged gently along. As they walked, Gojo noticed that Yuuji seemed to slowly wake up until they were standing by the boy’s bed, and he was fully conscious. Gojo didn’t have to guess why.
“Can’t wait.”
“Lie down, Yuu,” Gojo instructed with a smile, his heart thumping in his chest.
Yuuji listened easily, sitting on the edge of the bed and lying back against his pillows. Gojo couldn’t believe he would get the chance to look into the boy’s eyes as he parted his thighs and began the slow process of unraveling him.
Yuuji shuffled out of his sweatpants as Gojo sat on the edge of the bed, the air around them thick as Yuuji brought his knees back up, then paused with hesitation, seemingly self-conscious before allowing them to open up. It was an innocent act, a modest one, one that had Gojo’s cock twice as hard as when Yuuji had obeyed a few minutes ago.
“Good boy…” He couldn’t help but breathe, leaning in to press a palm to those squishy, nearly-muscular thighs, pressing them further apart. Trying hard not to appear too eager, he glanced up and could practically see his son’s pulse beating in his throat.
Just as the night before, and the nights before that, Yuuji’s hymen was still fully intact, though he was so,
so
much wetter than before. Right from the start. Yuuji’s mind had probably raced with all of last night’s events the whole way to his room from the couch.
It would be twice as easy for his cock to slip right into that achingly tight heat.
Gojo wanted, so,
so
badly, to be wrapped in that clenching heat. One finger just wasn’t enough.
Yuuji writhed beautifully for him, coming quicker than the night before, having worked himself up before they started. He was more relaxed than last night, too. Gojo almost wanted to suggest a second round, or a third, or fourth.
God
, he could have his son strewn out under him all night.
And that was that. Gojo’s paranoia-fuelled inspections of his son’s cunt turned into him getting the boy to come on his finger, with nothing but his thumb and a few words of praise. Gojo had lost count of how many nights had gone on like that; it had become so routine, so cherished to both of them. Just as special as the first. Once, when Yuuji had stayed the night at his friend Megumi’s house, he’d asked Gojo to make up for the lost time right there on the living room couch.
Gojo had nearly taken him right by the door. One thing that had changed was that his restraint was wearing thinner, day by day. Yuuji’s sweet little smile and enchanting gasps chipped away at that dam he’d built around the horny, greedy, selfish monster inside of him. He’d convinced Yuuji to bend over for that one, had claimed that it was easier to feel inside him like that on the couch, that it would make Yuuji feel even better. Whether Yuuji believed him or went along because he trusted his dad above all else, Gojo didn’t know. However, Yuuji had come that day with a little bit of squirt trickling into Gojo’s hand, and it took literally every bit of the man’s restraint not to lean forward and guzzle it down like water in the desert. His entire mouth flooded with drool as Yuuji cried out, hands clenched in the sofa cushions.
His son had then apologized, panting breathlessly and covered in a deep blush. Gojo had taken great care in pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips, reassuring him the whole time that he’d done perfectly, that he was a
good boy
, that it didn’t matter if he’d pissed himself, so long as his dad made him feel good.
He had explained what happened, of course, to keep Yuuji from being too anxious and self-conscious. Though he’d meant it, if Yuuji ever pissed on him in the future, Gojo would accept it graciously so long as Yuuji was grinding back on the pleasure being given to him the whole time.
One night, a chip had appeared in his dam, cracking it just enough for part of that monster to leak through.
During Yuuji’s fumbling to grip the blankets, his hand fell into Gojo’s lap. They’d done it so many times by then that Gojo knew the boy would be too focused on the pleasure to notice the constant bulge in his pants. This negligence meant that his lap was much closer than it should’ve been. So when Yuuji’s hand fell into it, he groped for stability amidst the burning in his belly, and his smaller hands found nothing but Gojo’s eager, hard cock waiting for him.
“W-what–” Yuuji gasped, looking down briefly to see what he’d grabbed ahold of. Gojo let out a groan, biting it off halfway as his thumb stuttered over Yuuji’s clit, his fingertip curling into gummy walls that clenched around him.
His other hand left Yuuji’s thigh, grabbing his son’s hand to pull off his clothed cock, worried that he might go insane if Yuuji squeezed one more time.
“Dad?” Yuuji called, blinking at him curiously. Gojo took a stabilizing breath, slid his thumb soothingly over the back of Yuuji’s hand, and tried not to give in to the carnal greed raging against that dam.
“Sorry, Yuuji. I usually hide it better,” He told him, smiling and kissing Yuuji’s knuckles. Golden eyes flicked from Gojo’s lap, back to his father’s face, and down again as a darker blush rose on his nose and cheeks.
“Does it hurt?” Yuuji asked, swallowing thickly, his thumb rubbing into the center of Gojo’s palm in a mimicry of his dad’s action.
God, Yuuji was so kind.
“Don’t worry about it, baby. Just let me check your health and make you feel good,” He hummed, his fingers digging in slightly to the sweet little hand grasping his.
It would feel so good wrapped around his cock.
“B-but! It felt like it hurts… And some of the guys in school say–”
“What do they tell you?” Gojo interrupts, his gaze sharpening for a second, before soothing into concern. “No one should be talking about that kind of thing.”
Jealousy rears its ugly head, the thought that some little brat had gotten hold of Yuuji’s innocent ears and sullied them with blue-ball talk. In that moment, he feels like he could set fire to Yuuji’s whole school at the possibility.
Yuuji’s mouth clicks shut, and he looks aside for a second. “N-no one has really said anything to me about it before… I just listened to some of them talking in the hallway…”
Gojo searches his face, sees the honesty in his brow, the bashfulness on his face, the guilt at possibly disappointing his father. Gojo kisses his fingertips again and shakes his head. “Well, I’m glad that no one was being gross to you,” He says, drawing Yuuji’s attention back from the floor over the edge of the bed.
“S-so, is it true? Does it… hurt?” Yuuji asked, still concerned for him, eyes darting back between his eyes and his lap. More of the monster peeks between fissures in his foundation, and he nods as his cock twitches under his son’s scrutiny.
“It does. I have to take care of it at least once a day. I usually wait until I’m back in my room, though.” He explains calmly, massaging Yuuji’s walls absently as the boy stares down into his lap. Those golden eyes flutter at the sensation, but focus immediately back in on his straining cock.
“You have to take care of yourself every day, too?” Yuuji asks, a little frown on his face as he considers what Gojo said.
Before he has a chance to speak, Yuuji looks back up at him with wide eyes. “C-can I help?” He asks abruptly, and Gojo stares back at his son in quiet bewilderment.
“You want to help?” He questions carefully, searching Yuuji’s eager gaze as his ribs pounded with the resounding cries of his selfish beast.
“Yeah!” Yuuji says with a smile, his eyes sparkling as a blush rises on his cheeks. “You take care of me every day.” He gulped, his throat bobbing as his walls clenched down on Gojo’s fingertip. “So, can I please help take care of you, too?”
Blood rushed in Gojo’s ears as he processed the other’s request. His throat tightened, and he couldn’t stop himself from gnawing lightly on his boy’s knuckles, taken by the ache in his gums. He’d asked so nicely, saying '
please
' like he wanted seconds at dinner; how could Gojo possibly
say no?
“Sure, Yuuji. Of course, you can help me, baby.” He agreed, stricken breathless, and dropped Yuuji’s hand back into his lap, his own fingers finding his belt buckle.
It didn’t take long to free himself from his jeans, and when his thick, throbbing cock hung from his pants, Yuuji’s eyes widened, and his fingers twitched with hesitation. Gojo could see a million questions pass through those glistening eyes. Just as he’d tamed that beast back and opened his mouth to reassure his son that
it was okay
,
he could take it back
, that Gojo would finish later in his room, and he wouldn’t have to see it again if he didn’t want to, his smaller hand reached forward and curiously wrapped around it.
The bare-skin heat immediately had him groaning, battling down an embarrassingly fast orgasm. How many years had he waited for this contact? Yuuji’s hand was scorching hot and soft to the touch. The inexperienced boy jumped in response to the sound. When he’d processed it, his heat gripped onto Gojo’s finger involuntarily, and his hand tightened a little on his dad’s cock.
“U-um,” He swallowed, clearly trying to breathe evenly. “I-is this okay?”
“Yeah,” Gojo breathes, rocking his finger in and out of Yuuji’s sopping cunt, lost to the feeling of ten fingers tentatively squeezing up and down his length. “Your hand feels so good, baby. So much better than mine.” Yuuji’s fingers barely overlap with his thumb, and the slide progressively got easier when his gentle touch would venture up and curiously slide in the precum dribbling from his tip.
Gojo gave him a second to play with it, his breath hitching whenever the palm of his hand twisted over his sensitive head, making him shiver and groan out more praises.
Fuck
, he couldn’t believe that
his
Yuuji had wanted this, to make him feel good because of the care that Gojo had been putting into his irresistible pussy. As if being inside of Yuuji wasn’t its own reward. As if Gojo wouldn’t die happily with having had just a single finger in that inviting warmth and forever yearning for more. Yuuji was always so kind, so caring, so willing to help when his dad needed it.
His cunt would probably milk his dick just as good, would suck onto him so eagerly he’d just have to stuff it full of his cum. It’s already clinging to his finger, refusing to let him go, clenching tight every time Yuuji’s hand slides back up the underside of his cock in that way that had Gojo lightheaded. The boy must be
enjoying
touching
him
. The thought had searing pleasure tingling up Gojo’s spine to tingle at his scalp.
He wouldn’t last long, not long at all. He was already biting back an orgasm, barely had it reined in. Gojo took a deep breath, pressed his thumb down against that twitching bud, and rolled it over with wet circles, pressing firmer than ever before. “You’re doing so good, baby. Keep going– just like that,” He panted, his ears buzzing as Yuuji’s hand stuttered, his body tensing as Gojo began to force an orgasm from his quaking walls and clit.
“Hah! Ahh…” Yuuji gasped, his body curling up off the mattress with oversensitivity as his clit was abused. As always, Gojo was hyper-focused on the way Yuuji’s pussy strangled his finger, begging him to sink deeper, stretch out his virginal walls, and claim him. He didn’t think of the way Yuuji would clutch at the bed sheets whenever his orgasm tore through him, not until his son’s hand convulsed around his cockhead, stuttering and slipping in the precum as he cried out.
“Oh, oh
fuck, Yuuji…
” Gojo’s vision went white, his hips jerking forward to fuck into the tight grip around his aching cockhead. His vision cleared just in time to see thick ropes of his cum painting Yuuji’s hair and face. Yuuji flinched back, gasping as the searing fluid spilt across his skin.
“Oh, Yuuji, baby, I’m sorry,” Gojo cooed, breathless while reaching forward, still working off the dredges of his high. He wanted to take out his phone, to photograph his son covered in his cum, set it as his wallpaper so he would never forget the way his startled, golden eyes blinked up at him through the sticky fluid. His memory would serve just fine; he’d likely see the image every time he closed his eyes.
“S’okay,” He panted, leaning into his father’s warm hands as he gently wiped the thick globs of cum off Yuuji’s cheeks. “W-what is this stuff?”
So perfect.
Gojo gulped, trying not to get hard again with cum still leaking from his tip. “It’s my cum, it’s what I have to get rid of every day after we do this stuff.” He explained gently, watching as Yuuji looked at it on his hands, watching it drip off in thick ropes from his fingers.
“I should’ve warned you, I’m sorry… You just felt so
good.
” He praises with a smile, squishing Yuuji’s cheeks a little, still riding the high from his orgasm. Yuuji blushes, his cheeks directly heating up the palms of his hands as he nuzzles further in, just smearing the cum further into his skin.
Gojo’s cock gave a twitch, and he deliberately forced his erection to recede. He would take care of it later, after Yuuji was asleep.
“You need to wash this off before school tomorrow, it’s gonna be really sticky when it dries,” Gojo explains with a little hum, kissing Yuuji’s forehead.
“Will you…?” He hesitated, bringing his lip in to worry between his teeth.
God, he should say no, shouldn’t he?
He was going to ask so sweetly, though. Gojo would be a horrible father to refuse to clean his own mess off his son.
“Of course I will, Yuuji!” He reassured, smiling down at him adoringly. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”
With a tired little smile, Yuuji looked like he was floating on clouds the whole way to the bathroom, where his father’s warm hands worked diligently to remove his clothes. They hadn’t bathed together since Yuuji was little, had stopped sometime when Yuuji had started middle school. Gojo had to look up the appropriate age to stop doing it, unsure when to begin setting limits and parameters for Yuuji’s childhood milestones, especially through puberty. Though it was difficult, since they’d always been just shy of
too close
. For instance, Yuuji hadn’t stopped sleeping in his dad’s bed until he was eleven. Save for when he had nightmares, of course. Gojo couldn’t resist when Yuuji would come to his door, sniffly from a nightmare. How could he? It would be cruel to turn him away. He had to sleep with a pillow stuffed between them, lest he risk Yuuji feeling his boner when they inevitably woke up cuddling in the mornings.
Gojo had to make a conscious effort not to pop a boner now in the shower; he hadn’t seen Yuuji naked in so long, and the sudden development of his body hit Gojo like a truck. He wasn’t very tall, was probably waiting for his last growth spurt, and still stood around Gojo’s midrib. His muscle tone was barely coming in, just a soft build under a layer of baby fat and soft skin. That selfish monster gnawed at his imagination, wondering what he would look like, littered in bruises and bitemarks. He’d look so
pretty.
Painted in the adoration that Gojo felt for his son.
“We should probably get you some specialty soaps,” Gojo thought out loud, gently wiping at Yuuji’s face with a wet cloth while warm water poured over the boy’s shoulders. His eyes were closed, nearly looking asleep while leaning into the palm of his dad’s hand.
“Hmm? What kind…?” He mumbled tiredly, his brow scrunching adorably, eyes remaining shut. Gojo wanted to lean forward and kiss his eyelids, nip and tug at them gently just to see the boy’s reaction.
“Well, you’re getting older, your body has already started to mature. You need pH-balancing soaps for
down there
. Regular soap is bad for your skin, since it’s more sensitive.” He explains with a little hum, beginning to scrub a warm, fluffy-with-soap loofah across his sharp shoulders. “I worry that I should’ve bought some for you sooner. I’m sorry.” Gojo frowned lightly at the thought, and Yuuji cracked his eyes open with a little pout.
“You don’ need to apologize,” He slurs sleepily, shaking his head. “I think Nobara mentioned something like that,” He yawns this time, swaying lightly and smiling up at his dad like he was the whole sky. “She only recently started using it, too. So you didn’t wait too long!”
Gojo’s heart skipped more than one beat in his chest, and his hands came back up to cup Yuuji’s cheeks in his soapy palms. His pink lips were moist and glistening from water, and Gojo wanted to see them bloom bloody from teeth marks.
He reined the urge in, just enough that when he leaned forward, his lips stayed closed, teeth safely tucked behind as he kissed Yuuji in the warm shower rays. Yuuji didn’t seem surprised, hadn’t drawn back, hadn’t claimed he was too old for mouth kisses from his dad, simply sank into the palms of his hands like butter on warm toast.
It was a miracle that his cock hadn’t smacked the poor boy in the stomach when it jumped. He let his lips linger, let himself breathe in the scent of Yuuji’s peach blossom body wash, kneading his fingertips back into Yuuji’s scalp, where shampoo had been scrubbed into his fluffy hair. Thankfully, his son wasn’t partial to any of those musky, overwhelming man scents, and had preferred soft, fresh soaps like peach, tea, or cucumber. Gojo could only ever think of warm, morning sun through a window when he smelled Yuuji’s unique scent. He hoped the boy would never grow out of it.
Perhaps he’d lingered too long, because when he pulled back, Yuuji was panting gently for air, his pupils blown wide. The image overlapped with the memory of his face flushed and dripping with his cum, and Gojo’s fingertips dug into the nape of his neck possessively. This time, his cock was hard enough to prod at Yuuji’s stomach when it jumped. Making the boy look down with a gasp.
“It happened again?” Yuuji asked, looking back up at his dad. Gojo swallowed the drool threatening to leak past his lips, fingers working to massage Yuuji’s shoulders as guilt swelled in his chest.
“Sorry, baby. It happens throughout the day sometimes, but it'll go down soon, though.” He lied through his teeth. It rarely went away once he was fully hard. The thought of Yuuji painted in his spend had brought him fully to attention. He’d be hard until he could lie in his bed and let his imagination run wild with the image.
Yuuji chewed on his lip, still very sleepy as he looked back down, seemingly making up his mind as his hand reached forward and wrapped around Gojo’s throbbing cock. Sucking in a sharp gasp, Gojo’s hand came down to grab at Yuuji’s wrist, stilling him as Gojo took a calming breath.
“Yuuji, don’t– it’s okay, I’ll take care of it later. You don’t have to.” He reassured, but Yuuji’s hand wouldn’t release with his gentle prodding, and Gojo’s heart trembled as Yuuji pouted up at him.
“But I wanna, please…?” Yuuji asks quietly, shifting as his eyes flicker down from his dad’s face to his leaking cock. “We’re already in the shower, so if I get dirty, I can just wash off again.” He reasoned, his eyes sparkling up at him.
Gojo had never been good at saying no. Not to extra sweets, tooth rotting soda, mind numbing video games, cuddling on the couch as Yuuji got older– It didn’t help that Yuuji was a good kid who knew his own limits for that kind of thing. But how could he possibly think of turning down such flawless logic?
“Okay,” He whispered, nodding his head, “Okay, baby… But I know you’re sleepy, so just hold it, okay? Let dad do all the work.” He’d like for it to be the truth, and yeah, it partially was. But a greater, more selfish part of him wanted to fuck into that hand in full strokes, imagine that he had Yuuji pressed to the wall or bent over the little shower seat.
“Kay,” Yuuji responds easily, and adjusts his grip, reaching with
both hands
to wrap as much as he could around Gojo’s length.
Perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect
It was a constant stream of praises in Gojo’s head; his ears rang, his breathing light and airy as Yuuji looked up at him, waiting for him to begin with curiosity in his gaze. This certainly wouldn’t take long, not when the first thrust into that eager grip felt like shedding years' worth of guilt and self-disgust. His fingers tightened into a grip on Yuuji’s hair until the boy hummed contentedly and leaned into his forearm, stepping close enough that when Gojo fully thrust forward, his cockhead slid up the boy’s soft sternum.
“God, Yuu, you’re so perfect,” He breathed into the air, leaning down to rest his forehead against the sudsy pink hair on Yuuji’s head. He couldn’t stop his hips from picking up their pace, rocking steadily into that grip as Yuuji squirmed with a blush.
“Thanks, Dad.” Yuuji practically hummed, shivering lightly as he stepped even closer, his hands at the base of Gojo’s cock, letting the top half of his cock smooth up his sternum, slotted between the meager protrusion of flesh over his ribs.
God
, if Yuuji’s tits were fully developed, would they be big enough for a tit-job? He’d look so pretty, holding his cleavage closed for Gojo to fuck into. Even if they weren’t that big, if they stayed little like this, or if they became more muscular, Gojo would still love them.
The thought made his vision swim, and he groaned long and low into Yuuji’s ear as his hips twitched forward. He made sure he was watching this time, watching as his cum shot up, raining down across Yuuji’s chest and stomach. Splashing the underside of Yuuji’s chin as he gasped, his hands tightened in surprise, wringing every last drop from his dad’s cock as Gojo rocked forward.
“You’re such a good boy, Yuu,” He panted, kissing his temple, heedless of the soap there. “Thank you, baby. You’re so perfect for me, Daddy’s perfect baby boy…” He praised, pulling Yuuji close, sandwiching his throbbing cock between them and smearing his cum up his own stomach as he held Yuuji.
“T-thanks,” He flushes, shifting as he stares down into the mess of cum stringing between them, his fingers coated in it as water trickles down their bodies in an effort to wash it down the drain. Yuuji’s hands rub together, he seems transfixed by the way it feels as it runs down his arms.
Fuck, Gojo is so fucked.
“Wanna try something new?” Gojo asks, his mouth going dry. He had to reward him, had to give him something in return. Yuuji had been so eager to please, eager to help his dad cum just so he could play in it.
“Sure,” Yuuji agreed easily, his cheeks flushing as he looked back up at him. He’s clearly still tired, but excitement lights his eyes just the same. Gojo would let him sleep, soon. Just after this, after he satisfies that insatiable hunger for the day.
“Just stand there for a sec, okay? Dad’s gotta get comfy for it.” Gojo tells him, he lets his urges guide him, lets that conscience and guilt fade into the background in the midst of the roaring blood in his ears. He sits down on the floor of the standing shower, scoots back so he’s out of the water jets, and places both his hands on the backs of Yuuji’s thighs.
“W-what are you doing?” Yuuji asked curiously, his face flushing as he’s guided forward, feet parted to either side of his father’s thighs, until he’s standing right over Gojo’s lap. Large hands tighten their hold around Yuuji’s plump thighs, kneading at them eagerly as hot waves of arousal cloud Gojo’s mind, forcing him to further ignore all of the alarms blaring in his head.
He’s wanted this for so long.
“Shh,” He shushes his son gently, leaning forward to press feathery kisses to Yuuji’s hip bone. “Dad’s gonna take care of you a different way tonight, it’ll feel even better, I promise.”
Yuuji swallows, and he shifts a little nervously, finding his footing as he nods in agreement. “O-okay.”
Gojo finally lets his adoring gaze fall down the front of Yuuji’s body, following the running of his own cum flowing in stubborn globs and thin trails down the dips and curves of Yuuji’s musculature. Until vividly blue eyes lock onto the pink cunt right above his eye level. Even though he’d just washed the slick from Yuuji’s inner thighs, his lips are glistening and throbbing again, making Gojo’s mouth salivate and his breath hitch in his chest. He can see thick globs of his gooey fluids caught in the soft barely-there pink curls decorating his mound. Possession snarls in his gut, raging against his stomach lining at the idea of his cum being
so close
to marking his son’s pretty pink folds.
He can barely stop himself from lunging forward and devouring the boy, trying not to seem too eager as he leans in and licks a firm strip right between searing hot folds to collect a mouthful of Yuuji’s fluids.
“Ha–ah!” Yuuji chokes, doubling over as his knees quake, his fists finding purchase in Gojo’s hair and pulling without thinking. Gojo groans reverently against his son’s pussy, letting his musky, sweet taste flood his mouth and coat his tongue before swallowing it down and licking up more.
“D-dad, st-stop isn’t that gross?” He asks frantically, his hips twitching in an effort to move back, but Gojo’s fingers dig in almost painfully, pulling him forward again because he thinks he might die if he’s separated from the searing warmth on his tongue.
Gojo licks through the folds again, not yet dipping in, playing with his son’s cunt to sate his own hunger as Yuuji writhes above. He barely pulls back with a wet squelch, swallowing another mouthful as he speaks, low and rumbling.
“If it feels good, you can scratch my shoulders.” Gojo prompts, slick dripping down his chin already, his eyes half-lidded as he smiles reassuringly up at Yuuji, whose cheeks are nearly glowing red.
“B-but what if I hurt you?” He asks timidly, his hands reaching further down to hesitantly rest on Gojo’s shoulders.
“That’s how I know I’m making you feel good, baby.” Gojo’s voice is deep, like he’s coaxing a lover, taken by the lingering taste of
Yuuji
on his lips and teeth. If he’s not burying his face back into that sweet cunt in the next few minutes, he thinks he’ll go insane.
“O-okay,” Yuuji agrees with another gulp, his fingers curling into the thick muscle of Gojo’s shoulders. He still seems hesitant, and Gojo thinks
that won’t do at all.
“Good boy,” He praises, the end slurring slightly as he leans back up and wraps his lips directly around Yuuji’s clit and
sucks.
“Ah!” Yuuji gasps, his eyes flying wide open as his body flinches. His hands scramble for purchase on Gojo’s shoulders, and his nails begin to bite into his dad’s flesh. Gojo groans, the vibrations rumbling into the clit trapped between his teeth as his tongue swirls over the twitching nub.
“Mmnh!” Yuuji moans, nails digging in deeper, lost to the pleasure being given to him as his hips twitch forward. Gojo thinks he’d like nothing more than for Yuuji to greedily fuck his face, taking and humping up and down his tongue and teeth until he squirts in his mouth.
Baby steps,
he reminds himself, letting up on Yuuji’s tortured little clit, his tongue playing back through the folds. Yuuji hardly knows what pleasure is at this point, has probably only experimented with his fingers a couple of times. It’s a miracle he’s as pure as he is. Gojo certainly wasn’t as naive going into high school, especially not nearly in his second year.
Good. That means Gojo had raised him right.
Yuuji is nothing more than a whimpering mess with guaking knees and thighs, his hips twitching forward to chase his tongue every time it retreats with a mouth full of slick. Gojo hums, groans, growls into the wet heat coating his lower face. He thinks he could get drunk on Yuuji’s slick, lost in it and never want to come back down to earth.
His tongue prods at the tight slit, and more cum leaks out onto his tongue, as if begging him to dip inside. It certainly wouldn’t reach deep enough to rupture that barrier he’d kept intact. So he could afford himself this indulgence, right?
Slowly, he presses firmly at Yuuji’s slit, flexing his tongue enough to be a blunt pressure, separating his folds until his tongue finally glides right into searing hot heat. Yuuji nearly screams, and Gojo’s shoulders and back must carry a myriad of scratches, maybe even some blood as the boy comes on his father’s tongue. Gojo groans, and fucks his tongue in and out of spasming walls, more for himself than to coax Yuuji through his first oral orgasm. He continues fucking even after Yuuji’s body relaxes, after his son begins to catch his breath, until he’s whimpering and jolting violently through oversensitive aftershocks as Gojo’s tongue takes and takes.
How could he have waited so long? How could he resist this before? Yuuji wouldn’t ever have to touch himself again if he didn’t want to, Gojo would do it for him.
“D-dad!” Yuuji stutters with a whimper, his thighs trembling so bad his whole body begins to shake. “Dad,
Dad,
” He practically sobs, hands lightly beating at his shoulders as Gojo pulls back just to nip and suck at his clit again. He sucks hard at Yuuji’s clit, tongue rolling over it in quick circles, over and over until Yuuji screams around choking sobs and comes violently. His son curls around his head, hips twitching in an effort to pack away from the overstimulating pleasure as his breath quakes and gasps with little cries. Gojo can feel a gush of squirt against his lower lip, and opens his mouth to drink it down like a man possessed.
Yuuji’s hips twitch to a slow roll, and his body shakes in an effort to remain standing until Gojo is finally done and pulls back with a soft squelching noise.
“Mmhn, Daaad…” He calls with a whimper, burying his face against the side of his dad’s wet neck. Gojo’s hands work to pull him carefully down, pulling him to sit in his lap, trembling atop his thighs as his strong arms wrap around the teen.
“Shh, s’okay, I’m here, baby,” Gojo whispered, holding him securely as the boy shook like he would break apart. Guilt began clawing its way up his throat as he realized what he’d done to the poor thing. “I’m sorry, did I go too far?”
Yuuji frantically shook his head, burying his face firmly against his dad’s neck as he whimpered. Gojo could feel how hot Yuuji’s face was against his skin. “N-no,” He stuttered so badly that he could hardly get the single word out. Gojo’s heart tripped in his chest again, and his arms tightened around his son, bringing him impossibly close.
“Did it feel good?” He asked with an amused hum. He couldn’t help it, he needed to hear more of the teen’s wrecked little voice, needed to hear more of how well he’d pulled his son apart with his tongue.
God, what would he be like on his cock?
“Y-yeah,” Yuuji breathed, squishing his nose against Gojo’s jugular as he whimpered, his body finally beginning to relax. “Really– good…”
Gojo hummed contentedly, stroking little circles in Yuuji’s back, watching gooseflesh break out along his arms and thighs. He was hyperaware of every place their skin touched, feeling lost in the thick warmth that enveloped them as the showerhead rained down on them peacefully.
He’d have to separate them at some point; they both had cum on their chests and stomachs, and Gojo had Yuuji’s slick on his chin. They needed to clean up so Yuuji could go to bed and still wake up refreshed for school. Even now, he was practically a dead weight in his dad’s arms as his head lolled onto a scratched-up shoulder.
For a few minutes, they simply relaxed in each other’s warmth. Afterwards, Gojo really couldn’t resist folding the boy into his king-sized bed, bringing him close to his chest as Yuuji slumbered, bone-tired from three orgasms.
–
Yuuji was quick to agree every time Gojo wanted to eat him out. After that, it seemed that it’d grown into his favorite activity during their nightly sessions. His son also offered his hand every single night, eager to have Gojo’s cum smeared across some part of his body. Usually, it was his chest, and after they’d realized that Gojo wasn’t equipped to get the stains out of Yuuji’s clothes, Yuuji had taken it upon himself to remove his shirt every time they started.
Gojo certainly wouldn’t complain, nor deny himself the opportunity to stare at Yuuji’s soft skin and puffy pink nipples. He wanted to lean forward and bite at them. Were they sensitive? How easily could he get them to perk up into sharp little nubs?
Weeks and months went by in a flash, and Yuuji was steadily growing up. He’d gotten just barely taller, a measurement that Gojo would mentally take every time they showered, when they’d get a little too messy at night and wipes couldn’t possibly get the cum out of Yuuji’s hair. He now stood around Gojo’s sternum, and he internally hoped the boy would stop growing sometime soon, he enjoyed the way Yuuji had to crane his neck just to look up at him. It made him look extra innocent.
It was now his second year of high school, and he really started to go through some changes, behaviorally. Not towards Gojo, certainly not. To Gojo he was simply the sweet, energetic boy he’d always been. Which is why Gojo could hardly believe it when he was called from work to Yuuji’s school to deal with a disciplinary meeting.
Yuuji had been caught fighting behind the school’s gym, and had apparently beaten the other boy bloody. The whole drive there, Gojo could only think up excuses. Maybe it was a misunderstanding, maybe the other boy had fallen and gotten hurt by accident, maybe it was being blown out of proportion and Yuuji had only shoved him.
He was in denial all the way up until he saw his son’s bloody knuckles, black eye, and busted lip. Gojo’s protective instincts were immediately sent into overdrive, and he was kneeling by Yuuji’s chair before even greeting the principal.
“Are you okay?” Gojo asked, tilting the boy’s chin left and right to survey the damage. Yuuji’s face was pale, and he nodded, but his gaze looked a little distant, and he withdrew from Gojo’s touch to duck his worried look. Gojo’s heart pounded in his chest, and he looked down to see the peeled-up cuts on Yuuji’s knuckles, still lazily bleeding.
“How long ago?” Gojo asked the principal, not even looking at the man, as he took in the way some of the blood trails had dried up already.
The principal cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. “The fight occurred around noon–”
“Has he seen the
nurse?”
Gojo asked, incredulous as he whipped his head around to stare at the man. The man looked uncomfortable, shifting in his chair as he wiped sweat from his brow with a cloth.
“Well, no. The other boy was far worse off, and we thought it best to separate them–”
Gojo’s temper flared, and he cut the man off with a snap of his teeth. “You’re telling me that he’s just been
sitting
here in your office for
three hours
, bleeding and in pain, without any medical attention?” His tone was eerily calm, his face blank as he watched the man squirm under his scrutiny and turn red in the face with anger.
“Well– like I said, the other boy was in worse condition! Did you want me to coddle him for bad behavior?”
A smile crept up Gojo’s lips, and his eyes narrowed at the man. “What I want is for you to do your job and
protect
the students under your care. Did you even ask Yuuji why the fight occurred?”
“No, we thought it best to wait for her–”
“
His.”
Gojo snapped venomously, enjoying the way he heard the man’s mouth click shut. His face turned redder, and he wiped the stained handkerchief around his forehead again.
“We thought it best to wait for you.” He finished, avoiding the use of pronouns altogether. Gojo’s rage bubbled up in his throat, throwing itself against the walls of his body in an effort to attack the man cowering before him.
“Well, Yuuji? What happened?” Gojo asked next, glancing down at his son, his tone automatically softening. Golden eyes flickered up to him for a split second, and he swallowed hard before looking back down at his scuffed-up sneakers.
“H-he was talking grossly about Kugisaki–”
The principal huffed. “See? There was no reason for Itadori to go overboard when one of the staff could’ve–
“Let him finish.” Gojo snapped, shutting the man up with a glare as his hand rested on Yuuji’s shoulder, fingers kneading at the tension building up there in hopes of calming his son down. Once the man was silent, he prompted Yuuji to continue.
“I overheard him and his friends talking, planning on taking pictures under her skirt on the stairs afterschool. So I told him off…” Yuuji trailed off, and he shifted, as if he had more to say. The principal inhaled, beginning to speak. Gojo’s eyes stayed trained on Yuuji, and he raised his hand to cut the principal off again.
“Then what happened?”
Yuuji’s eyes flicked hesitantly up to him, and then to the principal, before looking down at the bloody fists clenching the bottom of his gym shorts. “He said I was jealous, and that he would do it to me if I wore the girl’s uniform.”
Gojo’s ears were ringing, his breath halted in his lungs as he stared down at his son. His fingers squeezed the boy’s shoulder again, prompting him further.
Yuuji took a deep breath, trying not to appear as bothered as he was. “At that point, I was just going to go talk to the coach, or maybe the counselor.” Yuuji rolled his eyes with a huff, his fists shaking as he gripped the shorts in his hands. “But then he pushed me out the back door of the building, and the asshole tried lifting my shirt, to see if ‘I was really a boy’.”
The office was quiet, eerily quiet, as Yuuji curled a little more in on himself, clearly bothered by what had happened. The principal wisely kept his mouth shut, and Gojo couldn’t stop the rage from boiling over, breaking past his teeth and falling from his mouth.
“So, not only did you refuse medical attention to my son, the victim of not only a hate crime but attempted sexual assault, your negligence left him sitting in an office suffering from whatever trauma could’ve occurred.” Gojo was
seething
, irrevocably pissed at the man sputtering out whatever excuses came to mind as he denied the allegations, arguing that this was only one side of the story, and they would know more once the other boy started talking.
“We’ll just wait for the nurse to clear his injuries, and I will talk to him to get his side of the story. We can’t automatically jump to the first recount of the incident–”
“Are you saying that the potential victim of sexual assault on
your
school’s property is lying?” Gojo asked, his tone eerily calm in contrast to the man’s fumbling panic.
“N-no! I’m simply saying that maybe there is an explanation. Perhaps young Itadori had done or said something that could’ve been misinterpreted and taken too far–”
Gojo’s eyes flashed, and then narrowed further, just to see the man flinch. “Are you blaming the victim in this
potential
assault case?”
The man’s color fully drained from his face. “C-case? What are you saying, Mr. Gojo?” The use of Gojo’s surname told him that the man had mentally remembered who exactly he was talking to. Satisfaction curled in Gojo’s chest, and he leveled the man with a cool smile.
“I’m saying that you’ll be lucky to keep your house after the lawsuit I’ll be leveling your bank account with.” He threatened, towering over the man’s desk as shifty eyes widened, sweat collecting further on the man’s brow.
“D-dad?” Yuuji called, his bloody hand reaching forward to grab Gojo’s fist at his side. The action immediately snapped him out of the raging storm of his anger, and he looked back at Yuuji with a concerned frown.
“What is it, Yuu?” He asked, eyes scanning the bruised and bloodied injuries to make sure he hadn’t missed any more concerning ones.
“Can we please go home?” He asked, looking up into his dad’s gaze with a quiet plea. Gojo’s heart slowed in his chest, and he glanced back at the trembling principal before focusing solely on Yuuji.
“Of course, c’mon,” Gojo prompts, clasping the teen’s hand and gently pulling him up from the chair. Yuuji looked only a little relieved, smiling softly down at the ground as he was led out of the office.
Before the door closed, Gojo stuck his head back in, and caught the principal in the middle of a relieving sigh while shakily typing on his cell phone. He smiled politely, but his eyes still glared as the man visibly gulped.
“I hope that’s your lawyer you’re calling, because we’re not done.”
With that, he let the office door slam closed and placed a guiding hand on the nape of Yuuji’s neck, kneading there gently. The only word from Yuuji after leaving was the soft ‘thanks’ as Gojo opened the passenger door of his car for the boy. And he remained quiet for the whole ride home, which Gojo was fine with, still stirring in his own brood of rage and possessive emotions. He didn’t stop himself from reaching over to gently hold the boy’s bruised and bloodied hand; however, their fingers slotted together as Gojo tried hard to avoid the wounds. He was already compiling a list of where the medical supplies were in the house, ready to launch into action to treat each one delicately as soon as they made it into their home.
When he parked in the garage, he moved to get out of the car immediately, but was stopped when Yuuji refused to let go of his hand. Gojo frowned and turned back to look at his son in confusion, and was greeted by a soft sniffle and tear trails down Yuuji’s cheeks.
“Yuu?” Gojo gasped lightly, turning fully in his seat to face the boy. “What’s wrong, baby? Are you okay?” The anger in his body was quickly trampled by worry as he raised his hands to gently wipe at the tear marks, yet they flowed nonetheless.
“I-I’m sorry,” His son hiccupped, sinking into Gojo’s hands as he aggressively wiped at his own tears, smearing blood on his cheeks and irritating his darkening black eye.
“Baby, stop, stop,” He said gently, one of his hands grabbing hold of Yuuji’s wrists to keep him from hurting himself. Tears didn’t feel good in open wounds, so his knuckles being dragged across the boy’s wet cheeks were probably stinging. “Shh, why are you sorry?”
Yuuji sniffled, his shoulders shaking as he bowed his head to hide from his father’s perceptive gaze. “I-I disappointed you,”
Gojo’s eyes widened, and he unbuckled Yuuji’s seatbelt, drawing the teen over the center console and into his lap. It was a quick transition, catching Yuuji by surprise as the man easily lifted his body over, clearly uninhibited by the weight of the muscle Yuuji had seemed to accumulate so easily. His hand found the handle on the side of his chair, sinking them back into a more horizontal position so Yuuji wasn’t squished against the wheel of the car. It was a tight fit, but Gojo had intended it to be, leaving Yuuji almost no space to pull back or continue wiping his tender injuries against each other.
“Dad?” Yuuji asked with a sniffle, his face resting on the man’s chest, his hands pressed between them, feeling the steady beat of Gojo’s heart under his pectoral muscles.
“You didn’t disappoint me, Yuuji,” Gojo reassured, running a hand up and through the boy’s pink hair, scratching soothingly at his scalp. “You could never disappoint me.”
Yuuji swallowed and tilted his chin up to search his father’s face. “Really?”
Gojo smiled and kissed Yuuji between the severe furrow of his brows, reaching up with his free hand to wipe the remaining wetness from his cheek. “Yes, really. Why would you possibly think that?”
Yuuji sniffled a little weakly, his tense muscles slowly relaxing under the gentle touch. “You were so mad…” He whispered, his shifting in his father’s lap, his scuffed-up knees resting against the car door.
“Not at you, baby,” Gojo reassured, shaking his head with a little smile. “Never at you.”
Yuuji looked over his face, his eyes moving across the honesty there, worry slowly giving way to trust in his golden gaze. “Are you really going to sue the principal?”
Gojo felt a spike of anger in memory of the man, and he tilted his head. “Do you not want me to?”
Yuuji gnawed on his lip, flinching as he was reminded of the wound there. Gojo wanted to lean forward and kiss it better, to kiss all of Yuuji better, until the boy felt fuzzy and content. “I don’t know… I don’t want any of my classmates to be affected if the school loses any funding, if they have to find a new principal. Some of my friends are only there on low-income scholarships.”
Gojo’s heart swelled, and he hugged his arms around Yuuji, holding him impossibly close. His sweet boy, always thinking of others. “If anything like that happened, I would just make a contribution to counteract it, so none of the students would be affected. Would that be okay?”
Yuuji smiled, and he nodded. “Yeah, I guess that would be fine.”
Gojo chuckled at the situation, the fact that they were discussing this so carefree. After a second of just soaking in each other’s presence, Yuuji spoke again.
“What's gonna happen to the other guy?” Gojo’s white-hot rage and boiling possession made an appearance next, making his mood sour once more. He’d like to respond with vague threats, like
he’ll be lucky if he ever walks again, or pisses standing up
. But that would probably be going too far, no matter how badly he wanted to make sure that sleeze would fall into a coma and never wake up.
“If he isn’t removed from the school by the staff, we’ll get a restraining order so he has to move cities.” Gojo spits venomously, his arms wrapped around Yuuji, growing tighter with possession, his eyes glaring up at the sunroof of the car with more malice than Yuuji’s ever seen on his dad’s face.
“R-really?” Yuuji asked again, sounding breathless as he stared at the long line of his dad’s neck. His hands twist in Gojo’s button-up, as if to ground himself.
“Why? Do you want him to hang around?” Gojo asks, looking down at Yuuji, jealousy flaring in his chest as he studies the boy’s face. If he found out Yuuji was interested in that guy, or any of the boys at his school, Gojo might just sue the school hard enough that it would have to close. Then he could get Yuuji a private tutor, so he wouldn’t have to deal with whatever hormonal crushes might crop up.
“No!” Yuuji rushes to say, his eyes widening as he’s caught in his dad’s searching glare. Suspicion spills into Gojo’s chest, and his eyes narrow.
“Yuuji? Do you have a crush on anyone at school?” Gojo finds himself asking, and it’s like the possessive beast in his belly is the one talking, and he’s just watching from the sidelines. Yuuji blinks at him, and his cheeks turn a little red.
“What? No, of course not!” He stuttered, swallowing hard as his heart sped up. Gojo could practically feel it in his own chest, stirring around the emotions there. He stared long and hard, taking in the stutter, the quick speech, the rapid heart rate, and had just opened his mouth to question him further when Yuuji spoke first.
“Dad? Are you jealous?” His words were calm, as if he’d rehearsed them a hundred times in his head before finally speaking them. Gojo’s eyes widened, and alarms started blaring in his head as his conscience was drawn back to awareness; they were once again crossing into no-way-back territory.
“I just,” Gojo started, his mind racing through a million excuses at once, before settling on something close to the truth. “I don’t want any of those boys to take you away. If you get a boyfriend, you’re gonna want to spend a lot of time with him.”
“So… You are jealous?” He asked in clarification, and Gojo can feel Yuuji’s heart skip against his chest. Gojo doesn’t know what to make of it, or the way Yuuji’s gaze searches his almost eagerly, as if waiting for something to be revealed to him.
“Well, yeah. I guess I am,” He finally admits, and he intends to leave it at that. He really does, is already planning on helping Yuuji out of the car and into the bathroom for some first aid, but his mouth keeps working. “Do you like it when I’m jealous?”
Yuuji’s heart skips against his chest again, and a blush rises across the boy’s face, his ears shading pink. “U-um,” He stutters, and looks down to avoid his dad’s gaze. Gojo stares, his throat tightening as he watches the way his son fidgets nervously, shifting in the man’s lap under Gojo’s stare. “Yeah, it’s nice,” Yuuji finally admits, sounding nearly breathless.
Gojo’s lungs finally fill with air, and he chuckles lightly, putting his hands on Yuuji’s sides, letting his pointer fingers dip under Yuuji’s gym shirt to feel his bare, heated flesh. “Really? I was worried you wouldn’t like it.”
Yuuji swallows and squirms a little, shaking his head. “No, I like being reminded that you care so much…” He admits with a dark blush, hiding his face against Gojo’s chest nondiscretely.
With a hum, Gojo shifts the boy until he’s sitting upright in his dad’s lap instead of against his chest, forcing Yuuji to face him so he can’t hide his embarrassment. “You’re so sweet, baby.” He hummed, hands tightening on Yuuji’s hips without thinking, making the teen’s breath hitch. Yuuji’s hands fist in Gojo’s button-up again, giving himself something ot fidget with. He has to keep his head ducked, leaning over Gojo’s chest to avoid hitting his head on the roof of the car.
“I’m sorry you had to leave work…” Yuuji says next, as if trying to shift the attention away from his interest in Gojo’s jealousy. The man hums, pressing his thumbs into the dips of Yuuji’s hips almost absently.
“It’s okay, baby. Honestly, I wished they’d called me sooner. Not only would I get to leave earlier to have more time with you, but you wouldn’t have had to sit in that sweaty pig’s office for so long.” Yuuji chuckles a little at what Gojo says, his nose crinkling.
“He was sweaty,” He agrees, relaxing again atop his dad’s lap. Gojo watches the way his lips stretch into a smile, and relief floods his chest. He’s so glad that the image of Yuuji shaking in the principal’s office feels so distant, especially when his smile lights up the rest of his face and the interior of the car. Until the boy winces and brings his fingers up to touch across his lip, which had been split open again from his wide smile. Gojo’s eyes watch as a little drop of blood collects on his lip, and a pink tongue darts out to lick it up, staining all over his lips, making them just that much pinker. The beast in Gojo’s chest purrs, keens, begs him to lean forward and replace that tongue with his own, to taste Yuuji.
“C’mere,” He prompts delicately, and he wouldn’t usually give in to so many of his urges. Perhaps it was the possessiveness he’d felt over his son due to the incident at school, maybe it was the outrage he’d received from the blubbering mess of a principal.
Yuuji’s brows furrowed, and he followed the hand that had come up to cup his cheek, guiding him forward to be inspected by his dad’s azure sky eyes. Gojo watched the way Yuuji’s golden gaze widened when their lips delicately pressed together. Gojo pressed a featherlight kiss to Yuuji’s lips, and then another to just his bottom lip, and that really should’ve been enough, two little kisses to bide him over for the rest of his life.
Then, his tongue swayed its way past his teeth, slipped past his lips, and politely danced across Yuuji’s bottom lip, lapping up the new bead of blood that had swelled up. Yuuji gasped, his body shivering in Gojo’s hands as he sat still, allowing himself to be inspected.
Which, to Gojo’s muddled mind, meant he’d been given permission, and so his tongue dipped further, into the seam of his son’s lips, until Yuuji’s mouth was prompted open with a gentle swipe. Yuuji sat, wholly surprised by the act, having only seen kissing in movies and from couples performing PDA in the hallways at school or on the street. So it took him a second to react to Gojo’s soft intrusion.
Gojo watched as Yuuji’s eyes slowly slid shut, his cheeks blushing bright red. A small victory lit his chest, and his tongue dove further in, exploring the heated cavern of his son’s mouth. The hand he’d held Yuuji’s cheek with slid back to cup the teen’s head, pressing him closer, tongue tracing Yuuji’s teeth in an eager claim.
“Mmph…” Yuuji whimpered, his tongue curiously raising to slide against his dad’s as his hips shifted. The kiss was slow, passionate, teasing, everything Gojo had ever wanted and more as Yuuji’s tongue carefully entered his mouth in turn. He groaned, enjoying the velvety heat of Yuuji’s mouth as he wrapped his lips around Yuuji’s tongue and sucked hard.
“Haah…” Yuuji moaned, shifting his hips again, until his clothed mound pressed down against the protrusion in the front of his dad’s work slacks. He gasped, body trembling with a shudder, pressing eagerly down into Gojo’s lap again, seeking the pleasure that’d just zipped up his spine like a lightning bolt. Gojo’s hand tightened around his hips, and he pulled back to let his conscience speak again, to sway the boy away from such things; he probably didn’t even know what he was doing, after all.
However, Yuuji lunged forward, mindlessly chasing Gojo’s mouth, inexperienced tongue dipping past Gojo’s lips with no finesse until they were locked back into a heated kiss. Gojo’s eyes widened, and Yuuji let out a contented hum, coaxing his dad’s tongue back into dancing. His fingers tightened on Yuuji’s hips again, and he groaned into the kiss as Yuuji ground down mindlessly on the bulge in his pants.
Fuck, had Gojo done this? Was it his fault? Had he raised Yuuji to be this insatiable? Was it the hormones? Had Yuuji finally hit the horny stages of puberty? Did Gojo care?
Yuuji sucked on his dad’s tongue, drool spilling out in the gaps between their mouths as he sighed in frustration, unable to chase that delicious friction from before, angling his hips every which way to try again and again.
Gojo lowered both hands to Yuuji’s hips, his fingers pressing into the squishy globes of his ass, and held him still. Other than the gasp from having his dad grope his ass for the first time, Yuuji remained still, easily giving into the man’s will, knowing, hoping, trusting that his dad would make him
feel good.
And he would, he’d make Yuuji feel so, so good. His tongue worked to fill the boy’s mouth, plugging him up greedily as he held Yuuji’s hips still, rolling his hard cock up against Yuuji’s mound, where his gym shorts creased, showing the beautiful little dip of his cunt. He glided the hard line of his pants up against the seam of Yuuji’s clothed cunt, making the boy lurch forward with a moan, choking on the spit being shared into his mouth by his dad’s tongue.
“Hmmng, ha…!” Yuuji hummed and moaned, beginning to follow his dad’s guidance, rocking his hips down into the thrusts as Gojo bucked up in controlled rolls. Gojo sucked on the boy’s tongue, using it to ground himself as he nearly lost his control in the wet heat grinding down against him. Yuuji’s hips began to buck faster, using his dad’s hard, clothed cock to get off, losing himself in the action to the point his mouth stopped working, falling open with a constant stream of moans and whimpers. Gojo decided to keep his own mouth busy, trying anything to keep from ripping Yuuji’s shorts off. Their sexes had never been smushed together like this, never so close together. Gojo would pop in so easily if his cock was out, if Yuuji was grinding up the length of it, skin to skin.
His mouth latched onto the first thing he could, kissing and nipping as his mind fogged up with lust, imagining the tight clench of his son’s cunt as he fucked up into the heat shared between them.
“A-ah! Dad…” Yuuji cried, tilting his head to give the man more room to suck on his neck, making him look submissive and pliant. Which caused that purring beast inside of him to lunge forward and suck a deep purple string of hickies up the column of his son’s throat.
“
Fuck, Yuuji.”
Gojo groaned, his fingertips digging further into the flesh of his son’s ass, his forearms straining as he pulled the boy’s hips back and forth. Faster and faster as he bucked up against the other’s cunt, sinking his teeth into Yuuj’s shoulder as nails dug into his back, snaking under Gojo’s shirt as they lost themselves in each other.
“Mn–
hmmngh!”
Yuuji bit out, practically screaming a muffled cry against his dad’s ear.
“Oh,
fuck!”
Gojo groaned and sank his teeth into a new spot on Yuuji’s shoulder, so desperate for purchase that half of his mouth overlapped with Yuuji’s gym shirt.
The pair came together in stuttering hips, breaths, and moans. The keening of Yuuji’s voice in his ear paired beautifully with the headrush he got from his orgasm; his possessive grip on Yuuji’s hips kept the boy going as he went limp against his dad’s chest, aftershocks of his son’s orgasm leaving the teen warm and fuzzy, burying his face into the side of his dad’s neck.
“I love you,” Yuuji mumbled against Gojo’s skin, burying his nose against his pale skin as his body trembled and jolted through little spikes of pleasure. His body flinched with a gasp as Gojo pulled his teeth out of his skin, panting as he came down from his orgasm.
“I love you so much, baby.” He took a deep breath, pressing a kiss right under Yuuji’s ear as he inhaled the other’s scent. His large hands slid up Yuuji’s torso until they wrapped firmly around the boy and pressed their bodies close together.
They lay like that for a long while, the car filled with a happy silence and the sound of their mixed breathing. Until Yuuji’s stomach rumbled, breaking the silence.
“You didn’t get to eat, did you?” Gojo asked, giving Yuuji one last squeeze before pushing on his sides gently to get him to sit up.
“No,” Yuuji said sheepishly with a smile, sitting back while his cheeks dusted rosy.
Gojo hummed, ruffling his hair with a smile in return. “C’mon, then. Might as well have an early dinner.” He reached over, opening the car door and sticking a leg out so that Yuuji had enough room to scoot back and exit.
Yuuji moved to get out, and then turned back, his blush flaring for a second as he leaned in to peck chastely at his dad’s lips. “Kay,” He agrees with a grin, getting out of the car while Gojo sits with a stunned silence.
Starving heat made its way back into his body, carving him open as his cock jumped to chase after the boy. Fuck, Yuuji was literally going to be the death of him.
-
Whether because of their intimate moment in the car, or Gojo’s obliviousness to most changes, he was suddenly made very aware that Yuuji had gotten to be extremely
touchy.
On the couch, Yuuji would practically sit in his lap just to keep them pressed together. Which, inevitably, led to some more instances of dry humping that usually left Gojo craving for
more.
When had he gotten so casual? So,
horny.
Especially in the kiss department. Before they left the house, whether together or one of them leaving for school or work, Yuuji would take it upon himself to lean up as high as he could on his tiptoes just to peck his dad’s lips goodbye.
It was adorable, incredible,
irresistible.
Sometimes, by the time Gojo got home from work to find Yuuji sitting on the couch, he’d beckon the boy over just to press him to the door and give him one of those slow, passionate tongue kisses that were just shy of hungry. He had to set
some
limits, after all.
As much as he didn’t want to, as much as he’d like to bend his son right over the entryway table. And then again, over the kitchen island, eat him out on the dining room table like he was a whole meal just for Gojo.
Gojo had, in fact, sued the principal. Once the other student admitted to the exact same story Yuuji gave (with a proper threat from the victim’s father). Then, just as Yuuji said, once he was removed from the position as principal, he made a hefty financial contribution to the school and its scholarship foundation. It didn’t take long, and thankfully, Yuuji hadn’t been forced to make any statements in court. The principal had seemed to realize that any fight against the lawsuit would further deplete his bank account and had settled for a decent sum. Not that Gojo needed it, of course. In fact, almost the entire amount of the financial compensation had been put back into the school (as per Yuuji’s request, of course. The money was his in Gojo’s eyes).
That night, Gojo sat on the couch with his laptop in his lap, working through the process of making the final contribution to the school. His reading glasses (with blue light filtration for his migraines) sat on the bridge of his nose, low as he clicked through link after link. Yuuji had come to sit with him, watching a movie while leaning against Gojo’s shoulder, a blanket wrapped around him the whole way from his bedroom to the couch.
“M’kay,” Gojo hummed, shifting the laptop back and turning it to Yuuji. “Did you want to press the submit button?”
Yuuji blinked at the screen, his eyes skimming it before he looked up at his dad curiously. “Is this the one for the school?”
Gojo nodded with a smile. “Yeah, the last one. I thought you might want to submit it, since it’s from the settlement.” He watched as Yuuji looked back down at the laptop with a smile, sitting up a little more and leaning forward. Gojo watched his hand move on the touch pad and tap on the ‘submit’ prompt. The window processed, and then showed a new pop-up, with a ‘congratulations!’ written across it with confetti.
Yuuji’s smile was huge, and Gojo couldn’t help but lean over to kiss his temple. “Good job, baby boy. You’re so sweet.” He hummed into his son’s ear, beginning the work of closing out each window and tab.
“Thanks,” Yuuji replied a little breathlessly, smiling up at him. “Are you done on your laptop?” He asked, looking down at the silver device.
“Yeah, why? Did you want to watch a movie?” Gojo hums in amusement as Yuuji moves the laptop to the coffee table, past where Gojo’s feet are propped up. He leans back, his left arm up over the back of the couch, waiting for Yuuji to lie back down beside him so the teen can snuggle into his side the way he always does.
Then, a weight settles in his lap, and Gojo blinks as the boy fully fills his vision, blocking out the TV entirely as he straddles his dad’s lap. The action itself already has burning intent coursing in his stomach, watching as the boy shifts to get comfortable, pressing right into the spot over his dick. He’s learned now exactly where to press and prod at Gojo for the best reactions.
“What’s this now?” Gojo asks with a lifted brow, smirking up at Yuuji while the boy blushes, trying hard not to break whatever composure he’s thrown together for this moment. Yuuji clears his throat, and he can’t help but feel like he’s being given a business proposal. It’s incredibly endearing, and he bites back the urge to grip the boy’s hips, lest he derail whatever it is Yuuji is trying to do.
“S-Satoru,” He begins, and already he’s blushing harder. Gojo’s breath hitches in his chest, and his right hand sneaks up to grip the boy’s hips anyway, quickly losing half of that contest as Yuuji’s chest stutters.
“Yuuji,” He regards back, his smirk turning sharp as he kneads his thumb into the cut of his hip. “Whatcha doin’?”
Yuuji blushes harder, and he clears his throat again. Gojo tries very hard not to lunge forward and bite the little apple bobbing in his face. “I-I know what a hymen is.” He states bluntly, and now he certainly has Gojo’s attention. He blinks at the boy, taken by surprise. Yuuji takes the second of silence and runs with it.
“We went through the sex ed unit in school,” He rushes out, his cheeks blazing red as Gojo’s chest grows hot.
“Aren’t I supposed to sign off for that?” Gojo lifts a brow, and Yuuji ducks his gaze, continuing to mumble on.
“You talk a lot about how my body is developing every day,” Yuuji manages this without stuttering, but he’s utterly embarrassed and flustered the whole time. “S-so, I-I think it might be better to check the health of um– s
omething else.”
He says next, and his chest rises and falls evenly, shifting a little in Gojo’s lap as his dad can do nothing but stare expectantly for him to continue talking.
“Something, um,” His face is almost entirely red, and he raises a shaky hand to press two fingers into his lower stomach, as if
showing
Gojo what he’s talking about. He rubs those fingers in little circles just below his navel. Gojo’s cock twitches in his pants, immediately fully hard under the weight of the teen as bells ring in his ears. Yuuji takes this as a good sign, and he swallows hard, squaring his jaw as if physically building up his nerve.
“Will you please check my cervix, Dad?” Yuuji asks, and Gojo feels like he just kicked him right in the sternum. His other hand makes an appearance now, wrapping around the teen’s waist, pressing his thumb over the boy’s fingers, circling with them possessively as he pushes over where the boy’s cervix should be.
“This right here?” He asks breathlessly, his grip tightening as Yuuji nods, a little shaken, and lets out a trembling sigh.
“Y-yeah…!” Yuuji gasped out a breath, Gojo’s strong hands picking him up and throwing him down onto the couch so fast that his stomach flutters and flips. He’s left staring up at his father owlishly, gnawing on a lip as his chest rises with a deep inhale.
Gojo leans in, pressing his mouth to the space just under Yuuji’s ear, feeling the boy shiver as his large hands find his waist. He takes a deep breath, inhaling that intoxicating peach blossom scent with a little groan. “
Baby boy
, you have no idea how crazy you’ve been driving me.”
Yuuji sucks in a deep breath and lets some of it out with a whimper as Gojo sinks his teeth into the sensitive skin on his neck. The last time he’d gone a little crazy with hickies and bitemarks, he had to overnight a stick of the best concealer on the market so Yuuji could go to school the next day. Thankfully, any uncovered or slightly exposed bruise that day could’ve passed as an injury from his fight.
Since then, they’d (Gojo) had to work very hard not to be too obvious in where the hickies were placed, and how well they used the concealer. So right under the ear was a
bad idea.
He tried to remind himself, but sucked the skin into his mouth nonetheless. He pulls back with a soft
pop
and leans over Yuuji with a concerned glint in his eye.
“Yuuji, are you sure about this?” He asks, bringing a bit of seriousness into the air between them as Yuuji pants beneath him. His grip tightens on Yuuji’s waist, kneading into his sides in soothing motions.
Yuuji, face bright red, reaches a hand down and pulls a small, square wrapper out of his pocket. Gojo almost can’t believe his eyes as Yuuji holds it up between two fingers. “I-I came prepared.”
Gojo laughs, airy and full-bodied, as he shakes his head down at the boy. Because it is adorable, because it is naive, because it is entirely
Yuuji.
The condom smacks him in the cheek, and he glances down to his son with a chuckle. Yuuji is red in the face, his brow furrowed in embarrassment as his cheeks puff out in a huffy pout. “D-don’t laugh!”
“Oh,
baby,
” Gojo coos, and cups the boy’s flaming hot cheek with a hand, leaning down to kiss the corner of his pouting lips. “That’s not even gonna
fit.”
Yuuji blinks up at him, and glances back down at the colorfully wrapped condom on his sternum, and his face burns bright red. “I-it won’t?”
Gojo chuckles again and kisses each one of his eyelids while one of his hands slides down Yuuji’s side just to get to his hips, picking them up at the same time he rolls down to grind his hard cock between his son’s thighs, making the boy gasp. “No, but don’t worry,
this
will fit just right.”
Yuuji swallows thickly and looks up at Gojo with half-lidded eyes, already falling into the well of pleasure Gojo has been slowly dipping Yuuji into over time. “A-are you sure?” He asks, but his hips are already canting up to meet his dad’s rhythm.
Gojo hums, nodding his head as he takes in a steadying breath. “Yeah, of course, baby. I’ll make sure it feels really good.” He reassures, because he’s this close to having his cock buried in Yuuji’s cunt. He makes sure not to promise, doesn’t trust himself not to plunge through that virginal heat like a selfish, unforgiving blade.
He goes slow, pacing himself, because if he doesn’t, the last of his sanity will crumble to ash. His hands are gentle as he lifts Yuuji’s hoodie over his head; underneath is soft, unblemished tan skin. Watching as it trembles over a fast heartbeat, as Gojo finally gives into the greedy urge to suck purple and pink blooms across the boy’s chest. Yuuji is already a mess by the time he gets to the boy’s nipples, writhing and wiggling his hips as he tries to find friction between his thighs.
A selfish, horrible part of Gojo wants to leave him that way, give him nothing so that he has to beg for it while he suckles on his son’s sweet little tits. It would make him twice as needy, twice as wet, twice as desperate to be speared through on his father’s thick cock.
Fuck, he couldn’t do that to Yuuji.
One of his hands grips his usual handhold on Yuuji’s hip, and he guides the boy up to hump against the tent in his sweatpants like a bitch in heat. He can’t stop himself from groaning into Yuuji’s skin as the teen gasps out stuttered little sounds, head tilted back against the couch cushions.
“Hah,” Yuuji breathes, and it’s got to be one of Gojo’s favorite sounds as Yuuji’s hands tug at Gojo’s shirt while he grinds up the hard length granted to him. “Thank you, haah… Thank you– hmm!”
Gojo groans, low and growling as his lips finally wrap around a perky pink nipple, sucking hard and rolling his tongue forcefully over the nub, trapping it between his teeth even as Yuuji jolts and shrinks back away from the assault of pleasure. Gojo’s fingers slide into the waistband of Yuuji’s shorts, peeling them down the boy’s trembling thighs as he abuses the little bud with his mouth.
This is nothing like before; this was pure, raw arousal and pleasure exchanged in both directions. There was almost no room for innocence, no room for excuses for his actions. No room to convince himself or Yuuji that this is
normal
father-son behavior.
When his fingers slide back up to remove Yuuji’s usual boxers, he pauses and pulls back from the nipple with a soft, wet pop. His eyes widen, and his gaze shoots back up to Yuuji’s face, where the boy is watching him between fingers, his blush clearly visible.
“Where did you get
these?”
Gojo hums, that beast snarling at his ribs, fangs grinding the bone down like they were prison bars as he tries
very
hard to remain calm. His finger hooks in the lace band and trails along the outer edge of the panties like they’re delicate silk, watching them snap back into place, transfixed by their vivid blue against tan skin.
“N-Nobara took me to a store yesterday while you were at work…” He explained, squirming a little under the intense gaze sweeping over him. Gojo sits back, breathless, his hands holding Yuuji’s hips still as his vividly blue eyes devour the matching pair of lace panties barely concealing his son’s dripping cunt.
“They’re beautiful,” Gojo compliments, sliding a thumb up the clothed pussy lips, feeling the slick wetness already collected there, smearing it through the fabric and up to Yuuji’s clit. The boy’s hips stutter in his firm hold, and he mumbles out a little hum. This is definitely Gojo’s favorite color on the boy; he’d never be able to get the image burned out of his retinas, would savor it like a holy relic in a cathedral.
“T-thank you… I wanted them to m-match your…” He trails off, growing too embarrassed to finish the thought, trying again to re-explain as Gojo’s gaze eats up the timid squirming. “S-some of the girls at school do it with their um, t-their boyfriends.”
Gojo’s head goes fuzzy, and his cock twitches aggressively in his sweats, precum smearing a wet mark into the fabric as he smiles down at Yuuji deliriously. “Oh,
Yuuji,
” He breathes, lunging forward to capture his lips, nipping at the lower one and plunging his tongue right in the moment Yuuji’s lips part in a startled gasp.
“Hmmph–!” Yuuji whimpers, choking a little on Gojo’s longer, thicker tongue. The dam inside of him is leaking, ready to burst as he parts from his son’s mouth to rip his shirt off over his head. Yuuji hardly has time to breathe before his mouth is taken once more, tongue fucked indulgently by his dad. Within seconds, his sweatpants are all but torn from his legs, the kiss unbroken as his thick, heavy cock slaps down between Yuuji’s thighs, bouncing heavily against the sopping wet cunt blushing behind a layer of azure lace.
Gojo cracks an eye open and sees that Yuuji is looking down, mouth held open around his tongue as he traces the roof of the boy’s mouth. Yuuji’s eyes are wide; if there were room for it in his mouth, he’d surely have gasped. Gojo had been trying not to look, trying to savor the wet cavern he’d been exploring reverently, as if it were ancient ruins discovered by Gojo himself, a treasure trove all for the taking. He fucked his tongue into Yuuji’s mouth the way he ate out his cunt, desperately, greedily, with unparalleled starvation.
The noise their mouths make when they part is lewd, wet, and squelching as Yuuji takes a deep breath, choking on the pool of saliva that’d collected in his mouth as he tried to swallow it for air. Gojo hummed, his chest heaving, his own pants as he looked down the length of his son’s body. He watches with a groan just in time to see his cock twitch up before slapping back down against Yuuji’s mound, taking strings of slick with it and emitting a wet smack.
“W-will…” Yuuji panted above, swallowing again as he met his dad’s ravenous gaze. “Will it really fit?”
Gojo was losing his mind, rumbling a fake considering hum as he sat back up. His eyes locked onto the tip of his cock, and the way it lay on Yuuji’s stomach, stretching up so far that it surpassed the place their fingers had pressed into before, throbbing just past the marker they’d placed for Yuuji’s
cervix.
“Trust me, baby,” He rumbled again, smiling down at Yuuji reassuringly, ignorant of the ravenous glint in his eye that had Yuuji’s gaze going wide. His thumb reached down, swiping more wetness up to Yuuji’s clit through his underwear, watching with fascination as his son keened and shivered, before hooking that thumb in the leghole of the panties and pulling them up, making just enough room for the thick head of his cock. “I’ll fit so well that you’ll never be able to fit another cock. You’ll be the perfect size for me, and only me. Okay, baby?”
That was too much, that was definitely too much. How could he possibly have said that to Yuuji?
“Okay,” Yuuji replied immediately, his pupils dilated. “Please,
Dad.”
He rolled his hips up, scorching, bare pussy rubbing against the angry red head of his cock for the first time in their lives. Gojo felt like he could die, like the world could end the second they were done, and he’d have no regrets.
Fuck.
Gojo groaned, eyes locked onto the way Yuuji’s pussy looked, barely peaking around the thickness of his length as he slid the tip up and down through the hot folds, kissing at Yuuji’s clit while the boy moaned. The air around them was heated, clouding their minds further as they dumbly humped against each other like that. Until Gojo rocked his hips faster, strictly hitting and bumping over Yuuji’s clit over and over until he was coming with a cry, toes curled and fingers clenched in the couch cushions. Until that greedy mess in Gojo’s chest begged for
more, closer, tighter, inside.
He kept his cock gliding up and down against Yuuji’s cock, bringing the boy to overstimulated tears as Gojo slipped a familiar finger into his clenching heat. He pressed in, just below the second knuckle, until he felt that agonizingly impenetrable barrier. The plan was to make Yuuji come again, and to push past it so that most of the pain was swallowed by his orgasmic pleasure. However, the longer he thought about it, the more he thought about how wonderful it would be to break through with his
cock.
Derailing the initial plan, he eagerly slipped another finger in and felt the tightness double as Yuuji gasped and clenched down on the pair of fingers curling into him.
“O-oh!
Fuck!”
Yuuji gasped, and Gojo’s ears buzzed. He shallowly fucked those fingers in and out, rocking his hips forward until Yuuji was on the edge of another orgasm as a smirk curled up his face.
“You like that? You like feeling full? You like how thick it feels with two of Daddy’s fingers, baby?” Gojo asked, listening to the stilted, gasping cries from his boy as Yuuji nodded eagerly. What would the boy’s limits be? He’d grown to be so eager, so desperate to be filled with cock.
God,
was that Gojo’s fault?
He fucked another finger in at the thought, watching Yuuji flinch, feeling his muscles tighten around the painful intrusion, before relaxing so
quickly
, he wasted no time in stretching the boy’s rim. It would be the most painful stretch, Gojo knew that. Yuuji’s walls squeezed his fingers so tightly that they ached, forced to overlap. He couldn’t stop himself from watching the way Yuuji’s hips bucked back to follow them when he pulled them out just to fuck back in. He was already so needy, growing so insatiable.
“
Please,
” Yuuji gasped, sniffling as he chased the retreating fingers again with frustrated, rocking hips. “Daddy, please…!”
Gojo’s breathing hitched. Yuuji hadn’t called him that in…
Fuck,
too long. He didn’t know what to do with the sinful way the previously innocent title had just been begged, pleaded from kiss-bruised lips. His heart hammered in his chest, and his fingers fully withdrew from tight heat in a matter of seconds, wrapping around the base of his cock as his hips drew back enough for the head to slide down across Yuuji’s now-stretched-out slit. Yuuji mourned the loss with a pitiful hiccup and a frantic rocking of his hips. Gojo pressed his free hand to the boy’s waist, keeping him still as he watched the way fleshy pink had already begun devouring his angry red head.
The pair held their breath in unison, and Gojo was hyper-focused on the throbbing heat kissing his cockhead, begging to be fucked open. He swallowed and gritted back the urge to snap his hips forward, to force Yuuji open, whether he bled or not. It took every ounce of care for his son to slowly, agonizingly, feed the thick head past pretty pussy lips.
“Oh… Fuck…”
Gojo gasped, nearly seeing stars as delicious, scorching heat sucked on the head of his cock. The blood in his ears nearly drowned out the constant stream of gasps, whimpers, and choked out ‘
Dad’s
and the occasional
‘Daddy’
, and fuck, he needed Yuuji to stop saying that, at least until he could ensure he wouldn’t hurt him.
In a desperate attempt to maintain his self-control, he reached up and shoved two thick fingers into Yuuji’s mouth, feeling him gag and whimper on them as he fed another inch of his cock into quivering walls. Yuuji was too busy being slowly stuffed full to do something stupid like suck on the fingers in his mouth, a repercussion Gojo’s wavering sanity had bet against in his attempt for control. Yuuji was so tight that Gojo could hardly press forward, clamping down as pain and pleasure coursed through his son’s body.
“C’mon, Yuu,” Gojo panted, nearly sounding choked himself as his cock was strangled. “Gotta relax, gotta loosen up for me, baby.” The man coaxed, teeth gritted as he swallowed around a mouthful of drool. Yuuji whimpered around his fingers, and Gojo felt his walls loosen, his whole body becoming a pool of putty.
“So obedient,” Gojo gasped, and he’d meant it to sound more teasing, losing the tone in the feeling of his cock encountering that barrier inside Yuuji. “Such a good boy, always listening to Daddy.” He panted, bringing his other hand up from the root of his cock to press a thumb in circles over Yuuji’s clit at the same time he jerked forward, feeling the wall of skin give way and allow him entry, hardly resisting his cock. The pain had Yuuji’s walls tightening again, and Gojo bit his tongue to stave off an orgasm. Stroking around the little clit with his thumb, he flexed his fingers in his son’s mouth, massaging the boy’s tongue and playing at the back of his throat to make sure he felt nice and stuffed full.
Yuuji’s eyes rolled back, and Gojo fed another few inches into his quivering heat. Once he was halfway, he drew back to plug the boy with his tip, before rolling back forward in a deep thrust that made Yuuji arch off the couch, groaning wetly around the fingers in his mouth. Drool trickled down his chin, and his lips finally closed around the digits, sucking on them in hopes of distracting himself from the stretch as Gojo inevitably bucked the last few inches in.
Once fully seated, the pair took a second to catch their breath, for Yuuji to relax and adjust to the stretch, for Gojo to desperately bite off the orgasm that clawed up his spine the second his cock had touched Yuuji’s pretty pussy.
“Mmph…” Yuuji moaned around the fingers, and Gojo drew them back to allow Yuuji more room to breathe, watching as his siny, saliva-covered fingers slipped out to rest against pearly white teeth, the same ones Gojo had brushed so lovingly to prevent cavities.
“D-dad…”
“Hmm? What is it, Yuu?” He hummed gently, his thumb wiping up the trail of drool on the boy’s chin as he stared down at him with a decade and a half of adoration and pride.
“F-feel so full,” He panted, his eyes unfocused as he rocked his hips in a stuttering little motion, before clenching down on Gojo’s cock with an adorable little whimper.
“Yeah? How does it feel, baby boy?” Gojo breaths, transfixed by every expressive twitch of his son’s brow, the way he
looked
full by expression alone.
“G-good,” Yuuji replied with a hum, trying again to rock his hips. “B-but…”
“But?” Gojo’s heart sank a little, and he frowned, preparing to reign in the beast purring in his chest, ready to withdraw, to take it all back, to kiss it better and pretend like it never happened. Whatever Yuuji wanted.
A little more clarity came back to Yuuji’s gaze, and he closed his eyes shut tight, letting out a shaky breath. “Please, c-can you move, now?” He asked, stealing Gojo’s breath as he peered up through tearful lashes, wiggling his hips a little more aggressively.
He’s frustrated.
Gojo realizes, chest welling with fire as he groans, sounding winded.
His hands found Yuuji’s hips like a man possessed, large palms clamping around full hips to keep them still as he slowly drew out to the tip, his dick sucked by his son’s cunt the whole way. His cock was covered in sticky, clear, and white fluid, cream drawn out with every vein and ridge of his length, tinged with just a little bit of blood.
The realization crashed over him fast and hard, making him shudder as Yuuji tried to wiggle back down onto the cock, sexually frustrated and likely on the edge of an orgasm.
He was taking his son’s virginity.
The dam in his stomach broke, and the beast attacked. His fingers dug bruisingly into Yuuji’s flesh until the boy’s expression flinched into a hint of pain, and he rocked his hips more aggressively with a whimper. Gojo fucked sharply forward, rewarding the boy with a hard pace that had him bouncing up on the couch in a series of indistinguishable moans and gasps. The sound of wet, harsh, slapping skin filled their ears, and Gojo watched the way Yuuji’s bright pink walls clung to his cock on every withdrawal.
Harder.
That selfish voice demanded, and his hands repositioned themselves to the backs of Yuuji’s thighs, pressing his knees down, hitching his hips up just a bit more to allow a deeper thrust. With the first press into the new position, his cockhead hit a squishy barrier deep inside his son’s cunt.
“Ah! Ha– Ah, ahh,” Yuuji moaned, his head thrown back as his chest heaved, his cunt clenching and gushing and spasming an orgasm around his father’s cock while he babbled and scratched at the couch. Gojo slowed enough to meet each quenching wave of his son’s orgasm, using more force on every in stroke just to poke at the boy’s quivering cervix, threatening to break through as greed made his teeth ache.
“Fuck,
Yuuji,
baby, your pussy feels so good,” Gojo gasps, leaning forward to rest his elbows on each side of Yuuji’s head, bending fully over the boy as his hips smacked forward in even strokes. The angle became a little more severe, and Gojo felt the strain of Yuuji’s cervix trying to remain closed, barring his entry. That wouldn’t do at all.
“Do you feel that, baby?” Gojo asks, and he’s almost entirely unaware that Yuuji is lost to the pleasure as he presses down on the head of his cock from the outside, massaging his fingers over where he presses insistently at his son’s cervix. “This is what you wanted, right? You wanted Daddy right here, baby?”
Yuuji chokes out a sob and nods his head. Gojo watches it loll sideways as he gasps. “D-Daddy,
please.”
He begs, and it sounds so pretty in Gojo’s ears.
“There’s no need to beg, baby,” Gojo reassures, kissing the tear tracks on Yuuji’s face, feeling like he was ready to burst as Yuuji tried desperately to milk his cock. “Don’t worry, your little womb will be stuffed full of Dad’s cum.”
Whether you like it or not–
that atrocious monster inside him whispers.
Yuuji can do nothing but moan, and Gojo begins to pick his pace back up, stuttered breath shared with Yuuji as he focuses on hammering into that spot over and over, and over again. Yuuji’s hands fly up, and he hooks them under his dad’s armpits to sink his nails into the man’s trapezius muscle. He bobs up on Gojo’s dick, scratching lines into his dad’s shoulders as he tries to stay still enough for him.
So close,
Gojo’s brain whispers, and he growls in frustration. The need to stuff his son’s womb is all-consuming.
Breed.
Gojo leans his forehead on the cushion beside Yuuji’s head, allowing the boy to bury his nose into his white locks as he moans, loud and pitchy, right into his ear.
Harder. Faster.
His hands reach down to grope at the boy’s ass, thumbs hooked under his thighs, right under the jut of his plump cheeks, pointed inwards to his ruined, stuffed pussy as he pulls, spreading him open further, allowing just that much more give.
Fuck
him.
“C’mon, baby, relax for me.” He demands. His teeth grit, and he knows Yuuji must hear them creak. He draws back, nearly fully out as Yuuji whimpers and forces his trembling walls to relax, lost and overstimulated, trying his best to remain obedient.
With a snap of his hips, he plunges right through Yuuji’s walls, so fast that his walls don’t have time to clench before his cockhead finally,
finally,
fucks past that ring of muscle. Gojo gasps, loud and low as stars dance behind his eyelids. His cock twitches, and Yuuji comes with another screaming cry. Gojo can feel it all the way up his cock, all the way up until his son’s cervix strangles the head of his cock, and he’s forced to pump load after load of his thick cum into Yuuji’s eager womb.
Incoherent praises fall out of his mouth as he rocks his hips, unable to get Yuuji to let him go in the midst of the boy’s orgasm. But he’s content to fuck whatever meager give he’s granted while his cock wears the boy’s cervix like a collar, trapping each pump of thick, hot cum inside his son’s womb as his orgasm hits him harder than ever.
“D-dad…” Yuuji whimpers in his ears, arms circling around Gojo’s shoulders tightly, drawing him in. Gojo feels his chest rumble, and he squeezes the boy’s smacked-red ass before releasing to wrap his arms around Yuuji’s little waist. Their position shifts, and his cock head tugs at Yuuji’s cervix before popping out with a jolt that makes the boy flinch.
“Mmphf!” Yuuji muffles, burying his face into Gojo’s shoulder as his body trembles in the man’s hand.
“Shh, I know, I’m sorry, baby…” He apologizes, soothing kisses over Yuuji’s neck and ear, all the way to his temple. Wherever he’s allowed to reach from this embrace, he kisses, hoping to ease whatever pain he must be feeling.
“Does it hurt?” Gojo asks gently, hands stroking up and down his sides as Yuuji shivers, slowly relaxing in his hold.
“A little…” Yuuji admits, nuzzling his nose against Gojo’s jugular, taking a deep breath of his dad’s scent, humming contentedly once he gets a lungful of the lingering scent of Gojo’s cologne from work the night before.
“You did so well,” Gojo praises, fingers sinking into the squishy flesh above the boy’s ribs, tickling him a little as Yuuji seems to huff out little giggles.
“Really?” He sniffles, wiping at his tears, finally letting himself relax against the couch instead of clinging ruthlessly to his dad’s shoulders.
Gojo smiles down at him and leans in to kiss him, slow and gentle and full of love. “Of course, baby. You’re always so good for me.” He grins as he draws back, kissing the timple on Yuuji’s cheek as the boy smiles at him.
“It might hurt when I pull out, though. Are you going to be okay?” Gojo asks, sitting up to give Yuuji more room to breathe, more room for him to prepare to pull out.
Yuuji, though, he
pouts
, and it's quite possibly the most amazing thing that Gojo has seen. At the top of his favorite expressions of Yuuji collection.
“What?” He asks with a grin, lifting a brow down at the pitiful expression.
Yuuji’s face lights up red, and he gulps. “Can we do this again, soon?” He asks, barely above a whisper, and Gojo’s heart leaps through the roof, leaving him to make poor decisions with his mouth as he stares down at his son.
“Oh,
baby boy…”
He breathes, rocking his hips into the wet, perfect mess of his son’s pussy. “You’ll be lucky if your cunt ever knows peace after this.”
Yuuji’s face turns so red that he can practically see steam coming out of his ears. And his nose
actually starts bleeding.
Gojo’s eyes blink, and he has the black active wear shirt he’d been wearing deftly pressed up to Yuuji’s face in seconds.
“I thought that only happened in anime,” Gojo comments with a grin, satisfied victory tearing at his chest even as Yuuji smacks at his chest aggressively, hiding most of his face in the shirt as he pinches off his nose.
Gojo laughs, carefree and loud, unable to keep himself from leaning down and kissing Yuuji’s forehead.
–
After that, things… Only really changed a little. Yuuji had been seemingly worried that without his hymen intact, Gojo would have no reason to linger in his room in the evening just to check for it and give him a few orgasms for the night. He had no idea that Gojo had actually
meant
what he said about his cunt never knowing peace. His son was so thoroughly fucked raw that Gojo had to take care of him personally, with whatever soothing ointments they could use on his sore slit and lips. Once he’d seen the damage of their first weekend, Gojo forced limits on both of them. They couldn’t possibly go that hard every single time without risking injury; they couldn’t go more than a couple rounds, and whatever else Gojo thought of in the moment to keep Yuuji from limping around school the next day.
Gojo kept him loose enough that they wouldn’t need to stretch him if Yuuji
really
wanted it. And that was another thing– Once Yuuji had gotten a taste, his teenage hormones took control nearly
every day.
By the time the boy got his first period, Gojo took him to the doctor to get birth control because there was officially no way that they could continue without risking an accident.
Not until Yuuji finished school–
The festering greed would whisper into his ear, bringing forth images of Yuuji’s tits full with milk, his felly round with their baby. He’d look so pretty. Gojo would treat him twice as well, would give him anything he wanted.
The first time Gojo had bitten the bullet and bought a box of condoms, Yuuji had almost cried after having the latex in him for a mere ten seconds, pleading, pouting, begging Gojo to take it off because he couldn’t
feel him.
It's not all sex, though. Certainly not. Especially not after the first few horny weeks went by, where Yuuji couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Not that Gojo cared, of course. He’d tried so hard to keep his own hands to himself for Yuuji’s whole
life.
The rest of the time, though, they were normal. As normal as can be for their already peculiar relationship. They cuddled on the couch and watched movies, they’d play video games, go out to eat, to the theater, really anything Yuuji wanted to do, Gojo was just as enthusiastic. The only thing that Yuuji seemed to struggle with, however, was their lack of PDA. Which was a hard line Gojo had set for
obvious
reasons. If his friends hung out past the time Gojo was home from work, or if they stayed for dinner, Yuuji would still do everything short of kiss him and jump his bones, so long as the friends were Nobara and Megumi, who had seemingly gotten used to their
closeness
over the years.
When the pair would eventually leave, Yuuji would pout as if they hadn’t touched at all the entire time. Gojo would feed the boy’s delusions. How could he not? Kissing those pouty lips was just so easy. Bringing a pleasurable smile back on his son’s face was like parting the rain clouds. How could he resist?
Gojo’s oozing jealousy was still prevalent, however. And just as he indulged Yuuji’s little fits, Yuuji enabled his green streak by staying friends with classmates who’d confessed to him. He’d even bring them over for studying at the kitchen table. Gojo knew he wasn’t being crazy, either. Because he would
find
the other teen’s confession notes in Yuuji’s backpack, crumpled, clearly uncared for, but still
kept
just to drive Gojo crazy.
The first time he’d found the letters had been right before Yuuji left for school, when he was loading up his son’s homework back into his package and the crumpled paper had fallen out of a binder. It was as if the birds outside the window stopped chirping, and a tidal wave of possession curled inside his chest.
When Yuuji walked out of his room dressed in his uniform and ready to be taken to school, Gojo pressed him up against the front door, his fingers digging into the boy’s cheeks to open his mouth under the assault of his tongue into the familiar wetness.
“D-dad?” Yuuji had gasped, looking up at him with startled blinks, his pupils blown wide. Gojo would bet that he was already wet.
“Found something in your bag,” Gojo explained vaguely, holding up the ruffled paper. Yuuji’s eyes widened and his cheeks flushed, looking up at him with little to no guilt. “Is this from the boy who came over to study the other night?” He asked, his eyes narrowing down at his son.
Yuuji swallowed, and he nodded honestly. “Yeah, he gave it to me just before we got here–” Gojo's stomach welled with that dark, gooey feeling, and his hand found Yuuji’s belt buckle easily.
“D-dad?” Yuuji asked again, his face turning more red as he checked the clock over his dad’s shoulder. Gojo shifted, blocking the teen’s view as he pushed Yuuji’s pants down and picked him up to press fully against the door. Yuuji yelped, startled, his uniform pants still around his knees as both legs were slung over Gojo’s arm, nearly up his shoulder. It only took a couple more seconds before Gojo’s own belt was loosened and his throbbing cock was pulled free of his sweat pants. He had the day off today, so he was pissed at the idea of having to sit at home dwelling on this feeling until Yuuji got home.
To say he’d had almost zero control since their first time would be an understatement.
“What are you–” Yuuji fumbles to ask, and then his dad’s cockhead easily slots between his folds, sliding in the accumulation of wetness that Gojo knew would be there. “I-I have school!” He gasped, red in the face as Gojo’s hips snapped forward, heedless of his meager protest.
Gojo didn’t say another word, simply pounded into his son’s sloppy, clenching heat, until Yuuji couldn’t speak, could do nothing but clutch and scramble for hold on his dad’s shoulders. The door creaked under the force of his thrusts, and as soon as he felt Yuuji’s walls beginning to clench, his moans getting higher and higher, he pulled out and set the boy abruptly on his feet. Yuuji gasped, trembling against the door, trying to steady himself as his orgasm hung right on the edge.
“Dad!” He cried out, nearly whining as he shifted. “Wh-why…?” He looked up at Gojo, looking betrayed. Part of Gojo’s jealousy was quelled, his heart clenched in his chest, begging him to pick the boy back up and stuff him with a load for the day. His fingers clenched around the ball of paper in his hand, however, and his resolve hardened further.
He reached forward and thrust two fingers roughly into Yuuji’s sopping wetness, circling the rim, curling to inspect and memorize the give to his walls. Yuuji bit down on a moan, head tilting back on the door. Gojo leaned in close, pressing his fingers in deep and curling them ruthlessly into his son’s g-spot, making the boy flinch, the white-hot pleasure too much, chasing off his orgasm.
“If you’re
any
looser than this when you get home,” Gojo began, pressing harder, circling that spot until Yuuji was jumping and flinching with whimpers, his orgasm evading him. “You’ll be grounded. Got it?”
Yuuji nodded stiffly, eyes clenched tight, gasping as Gojo withdrew his fingers. He whimpered, rubbing his thighs together, slickness dripping down the insides, making them shiny and delectable. “D-dad, I can’t go to school like this–”
Gojo reached down and grabbed his son’s pants, dragging them back up and fastening his belt himself. “You’re gonna have to, Yuu. Or you’re gonna be late.” He hummed, cupping Yuuji’s cunt through his pants, pressing his fingers between moist folds, just to tease the boy further.
Yuuji huffed when he pulled back, his brows furrowed as he looked up at Gojo unfairly. Gojo leaned down and kissed him because he wasn’t a monster. He gently suckled his son’s tongue and pulled back as Yuuji sighed wistfully, still pouting but looking less grumpy.
“I’ll see you when you get home, baby.” Gojo hummed, fixing the back of Yuuji’s hair where it’d been pressed to the door. “Love you.”
“I love you, too,” Yuuji responded, leaning up for one last kiss before heading out the door.
Gojo didn’t expect the boy to be back before the end of his second period. He lifted an eyebrow at Yuuji as the boy stepped in the door, closing it abruptly behind him. “What are you doing home?” Gojo asked, his immediate thoughts always to be concerned. What if Yuuji had been sent home sick? Or if the school was closed for the day? Surely they would’ve called him…
“I got in a fight,” Yuuji huffed, taking his shoes off and dropping his bag aggressively on the floor. Gojo blinked, his eyes wide.
“What? You did?” He asked incredulously, sitting up from the couch as Yuuji immediately walked towards him, his head down. “Are you hurt? What happened?”
“‘M not hurt,” Yuuji states with a little huff, and climbs into Gojo’s lap without any preamble. Gojo’s hands found Yuuji’s hips, and he pushed to try and get another look at the boy, just to double-check, to have a conversation face-to-face. Yuuji resisted, however, and rolled his hips down into Gojo’s lap.
“Couldn’t focus…” Yuuji told him, sounding small as he rolled his hips slowly and deeply on Gojo’s hardening cock. His hands tightened on the teen’s hips, making him whimper as his hips stutter.
“Yuuji, you can’t be getting into fights…” Gojo tried to explain, already having to bite back a groan as Yuuji’s nails dug into his shoulders. Yuuji had never done anything like this, had never acted out just to get Gojo’s attention, had never
needed to.
Gojo realizes that distantly, he might’ve screwed up somewhere, but it's hard for him to entertain the thought when his son wiggles his inviting warmth down onto his lap.
“I’m sorry, Daddy…” Yuuji whispers in his ear, and he doesn’t sound sorry, not even a little bit. Gojo groans low in the boy’s ear, and he gives in to the tug of Yuuji’s body, grinding up into his next hump down for friction.
“Yuuji…” He tries to admonish again, but Yuuji’s hand finds the bulge in his pants, and his teeth click shut as the boy squeezes. He watches as Yuuji slowly slides down from his lap and settles down between Gojo’s knees. Distantly, he wonders where the boy could’ve possibly gotten
this
idea from. Gojo had never asked Yuuji to suck him off, had never once had the boy on his knees, no matter how tempting, had never allowed himself to be that selfish.
“I saw this in a manga…” Yuuji mumbles, as if reading Gojo’s mind, blinking up at him with his big, honey eyes. Gojo feels like he’s suffocating in them. His son’s hands pull at his sweatpants, and Gojo does little to nothing to keep him from pulling his aching cock free.
“Yuuji–” He begins, ready to reassure the boy, to pull him up off the floor, unable to indulge that selfish bastard inside him. But then, two pink lips kiss at the underside of his cock, and his head rolls back with a low groan.
“I’ve really wanted to try this…” Yuuji admits, his cheeks slightly flushed, and the only reason he’s not a stuttering mess is because he can tell how easily he’s getting out of trouble right now. Gojo can’t even blame himself, because who could possibly resist such a heavenly sensation?
A hot, wet tongue sticks out, and kitten licks along the underside of his cock, pressing firmly over each vein, until he reaches a bead of precum and pauses. Gojo’s quick to open his mouth, to comfort the other, tell Yuuji that he doesn’t have to taste that if he doesn’t want to. But Yuuji licks it up in a long stripe, all the way to Gojo’s tip, and he’s rendered completely breathless as Yuuji shivers and licks his lips.
“Salty…” Yuuji mumbles, as if to himself, and something about it almost feels rehearsed, and Gojo’s ears buzz because that means his son had studied whatever manga had showcased a
blow job just to pleasure his dad.
“Does it taste good, baby?” Gojo asks, his fingers weaving through the fluffy pink hair, nails dragging across Yuuji’s scalp as his eyes flutter with the feeling.
“Yeah,” Yuuji breathes, and leans forward again to dip his tongue into the source of the pre, swallowing and coming back to wrap his lips around the head of his dad’s cock. Gojo groans, low, like a growl, as he grips Yuuji’s hair in a fist. Yuuji gasps and looks up at him through his lashes as he takes more into his mouth, his tongue rolling along the underside.
His mouth feels like
heaven
, like Yuuji is an angel who fell just to sit on his knees and suck his dad off with the little moans he can’t seem to contain. Yuuji’s hand wraps around Gojo’s base, and he bobs his head experimentally, clearly trying to mimic whatever image is in his head.
Gojo groans, breathless, his hips bucking thoughtlessly up into the new, wet heat wrapped around his cock. Yuuji gags, and Gojo can see tears spring to his eyes. He pulls back and coughs a little into his hand, adorable, beautiful, innocent.
“You okay, baby?” Gojo asks, gently ruffling his hair as Yuuji nods. His gaze sets with an aroused determination, and he leans forward again, lips wrapping around the flared head, licking up the precum as he sucks gently. Gojo’s ears are ringing, and he refrains from bucking back into that heat as Yuuji dips his head down, taking more and more of his dad into his mouth. Until his spongy tip hits the back of his gummy throat, and he makes himself gag. His eyes roll back this time, however, and he doesn’t pull back; he lunges forward, lapping his tongue along the underside eagerly. He seems like he’s having trouble, unable to get it deeper down hsi tight little throat the way he seems to want to.
Gojo’s heart thumps in his throat, and he grips Yuuji’s hair, pulling him down his length, feeling the hard suction as Yuuji resists at first, not wanting to let him out of his mouth. Which is blow-your-load material already, but Gojo simply shushes him.
“Let Dad help, okay, baby?” Gojo hums, and Yuuji looks up at him. There are tears in his eyes, his cheeks sucked hollow as he nods, his honeyed gaze full of trust. Gojo smiles reassuringly down at him and uses his hair to pull him back, until just the end of his tip is slotted between the two lips.
“Relax as much as you can,” Gojo advises softly, and waits for Yuuji’s facial features to relax, until he looks back up at him, tongue gently lolling over the tip as he shifts where he kneels on the floor. Gojo takes a deep breath through his nose and brings the boy back forward at an even pace, feeding his cock past those soft lips, all the way back until he feels the tight clench of Yuuji’s throat, and the boy chokes. He lets up, slides Yuuji’s head back so he can get a deep breath, and pulls him back down when he deems the boy ready to continue. It starts slow, but soon Yuuji is bobbing his head at an eager pace, taking more and more of his father’s cock down his throat, choking and gagging and swallowing around Gojo’s cockhead deliriously, his eyes unfocused as spit and pre mix to drip down his son’s chin.
“Fuck, baby…” Gojo pants, hips bucking up into his mouth, he’s got both hands in Yuuji’s hair, holding both sides of the boy’s face as he feeds him a mouthful of cock. “You want me to fuck your face, baby?” He asks, mainly to tease him, to speak his thoughts out loud. He doesn’t expect Yuuji’s gaze to grow clear, for him to nod eagerly and swallow around the intrusion in the back of his throat.
Gojo sucks in a sharp breath, and he groans, his head rolling back on the couch as he holds Yuuji’s head still for a second, trying not to blow his load before he gets a chance to fuck his pretty face. Once his orgasm is sufficiently staved off, Gojo looks back down and locks eyes with Yuuji, continuing to keep his head still as he begins gently rolling his hips, fucking his dick in and out of the boy’s throat. He feels the texture of Yuuji’s palate, grinding his cockhead up against it and letting it guide him back down into the loose hole he’d started carving down his son’s throat.
He’s not gonna last long, has been on the verge from the first kiss of those tender lips to each of his veins. So, he picks up his pace, fucking forward with stuttering rolls, listening to Yuuji slurp and gag and groan wetly around the intrusion in his throat. There's spit and pre and snot dripping down the poor boy’s face, but he looks absolutely sinful, blissed out with a face full of dad dick.
“Gonna come, baby. You want me to pull out?” He asks, breathless, rolling faster and faster in wet squelches as his son swallows his cock. Yuuji shakes his head, scooting closer and beginning to bob his head forward on the thrusts, eager and sloppy and inexperienced, his teeth scraping against the underside of Gojo’s cock as his tongue works to massage the sides. Gojo can see the pink muscle flick out every now and then, obsessively licking all over his cock like it's candy.
Gojo’s orgasm crashes over him easily, and he makes sure he’s stuffed as far as he can down Yuuji’s throat so none of it has to get on his face and tongue, not wanting Yuuji to bear the brunt of the musky, bitter taste. His son chokes, his throat working to gulp down the cum as Gojo grinds the head of his cock against the tight, wet heat. Yuuji’s face starts to turn red, and he pulls back as soon as he can so that the teen can breathe. It's raspy, and he’s swallowing between mouthfuls of air, still working to take Gojo’s full load as it slides in globs down his throat.
The thought that he’d just bred his son’s
throat
hits Gojo like a truck, and two short spurts of cum twitch from the end of his cock, painting Yuuji’s tongue and lips. “Fuck, sorry, baby.” Gojo apologizes as he leans forward to wipe the cum off his lips. Yuuji’s tongue darts out first, however, an impulsive reaction, and swipes up the few thick ropes to draw back into hsi mouth. Gojo’s heart rate spikes, and he groans lightly.
“You can spit that out if you wanna,” Gojo tells him, no matter how much it arouses him to think that Yuuji would swallow it just like the rest. Yuuji meets his eyes, however, and when he opens his mouth, he sticks his tongue out to show the cum piled there, before swallowing with his mouth open, providing Gojo with a full view of the cum gliding and disappearing down the boy’s throat.
He growls, low and satisfied, and lunges forward to grab his son’s face, pulling him up off the floor and into his lap. “What have you been
reading?”
He questions, a shiver rolling up his spine as the memory runs through his mind.
Yuuji simply laughs, and then coughs, and winces, and Gojo leans forward to kiss his Adam’s apple. “I’m sorry, baby, I’ll make you some tea when we’re done.” He promises, pressing many kisses to the underside of his jaw as he works to remove Yuuji’s pants.
Yuuji blushes, looking down at him, a little nervous. “You mean, I’m not in trouble?”
Gojo’s eyes narrow, and his hands maneuver them, so he’s lying on his back on the couch, and Yuuji is kneeling right over his face, blushing down at him as he shifts. “I never said
that.
You did get into a fight, after all.”
Yuuji frowned, chewing on his red and raw lips, his heart fluttering as his dad lowered him down, until he could feel Gojo’s breath on his soaked folds. “It wasn’t a
real
fight…”
Gojo’s eyes race up to his, and he lifts a brow. “What do you mean?” He watches as the boy squirms, his eyes looking off to the side.
“I annoyed Megumi until we fought. He was sick and they wouldn’t let him go home. So it was a win-win!” He explains sheepishly, and that sticky heat curls in Gojo’s chest.
Kind.
Yuuji is so, so kind. Even when he’s doing something selfish, it’s to benefit someone else.
Gojo doesn’t respond, simply dips forward and buries his face in the waiting heat hovering above. Yuuji is soaked and sensitive, his walls throbbing open on Gojo’s tongue from their rough treatment this morning. Gojo groans, plunging his tongue up to fuck his son’s cunt as deep as he can. His breath fans over the sensitive clit waiting above, and it doesn’t take Yuuji long before he’s coming with a cry, grinding down to fuck his dad’s face with twitching hips. When Yuuji’s not so eager and on the edge, he’ll have to get him to do that again. They can spend hours with Yuuji riding his face, fucking into his mouth, and filling it with
his
cum.
They have a weekend coming up, maybe they can do it then.
–
The letters stop coming in, or maybe Yuuji throws them away when he gets them. Regardless, their new daily inspection becomes Gojo’s fingers or cock stuffed in the boy’s pussy as soon as he gets in the door, just to check if he’d stayed Gojo’s perfect little cocksleeve throughout his school day. Yuuji would goad him into checking, stroke his jealousy into aggression just to get his way, until he was cockdrunk over the entryway table.
Gojo had raised the boy to be absolutely
insatiable.
Overflowing with kindness and generosity, and so insanely greedy, Gojo couldn’t believe it.
On Saturday mornings, the pair were content to spend the whole day in Gojo’s bed; Yuuji’s was hardly slept in anymore. Even if they weren’t having sex, they would cuddle and order takeout, Yuuji would read his manga, Gojo would be entertained by what was on the TV, or listen to whatever hyperfixation the teen wanted to rant about.
That beast that dwelled in the hollow cavity of Gojo’s chest was almost never hungry, happily sated and at peace with the hoard of attention he’d received from his son.
Though whenever he’d wake up in the middle of the night with his cock throbbing hard and wrapped in tight wet heat, golden eyes shining at him from beneath the blankets like a lustful little creature, he knew that the boy had inherited that same beast, with none of the self-restraint.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
“All right, uh, thanks again, bye.” Steven hung up the wall phone in the shack and sighed, resting his head on the wall for a moment. The local auto shop would pick up his car and give him a consultation, but it would take a while.
“Hey, you done, kid? Any longer and it's gonna be another twenty bucks!” Stan Pines called over towards him from the cash register, as he counted out the day's money.
“Grappling hook!” Mabel cried out again, just out of his sight.
Stan cringed at another thud and breaking of something hopefully not expensive. He just had to go and let the kids get to him huh, and let them get whatever they wanted.
“Oops--sorry Grunkle Stan!”
He rolled his eyes and looked over at the kids. Dipper had donned his new pine tree hat, and Mabel was reeling back the grappling hook from a small hole in the wall.
“I’ll just have Soos fix it, but careful with that thing, huh? I ain’t made of plaster!” He said.
Steven watched, hand still on the hung up telephone on the wall. A grappling hook, really? Wasn’t that kind of dangerous? He wasn’t their guardian, though, so Mr. Pines probably knew it was fine. He shook his head and walked over towards the register.
“Thanks again, Mr. Pines. Uh. You wouldn’t happen to know somewhere I could stay, do you?” Steven said. “ While I wait on the Dondai to be fixed…”
“A Dondai huh? Classic, not too flashy.” Stan mused, then looked at Steven with a flat expression. Darn teenagers, irresponsible with their cars. The kid was lucky Dipper and Mabel had been nearby. “ Well don’t just stand around, kid, no loitering. You gonna buy anything? I can’t just chat without making cash!” He exclaimed.
“Oh, uh.” Steven panicked, and grabbed a bobble head off of the counter, and put it down in between them. “ Sorry, uh, I guess that’s the store policy?”
“Sorry for what? Geeze, you’re a jumpy kid.” Stan said with an eye roll. “ Anyways that's five bucks.”
Steven fished out a huge wad of cash from his pocket. Stan’s eyes bulged as Steven flicked through it and took out a fifty dollar bill.
“Uh, it's fine if you don’t have change, I have a lot more.” Steven said sheepishly. As if he was apologizing for having money at all.
Stan grinned and took the bill, stuffing it in his pocket. “ Ooh, don’t you worry about that, valued customer! Say, what brings you to Gravity falls anyways?”
“Oh, actually. I wanted to stay here for the summer. I’m on a cross country road trip, and I want to experience as much as possible, and this town is pretty different from where I’m from! I was thinking about getting a job while I’m here too, since, uh, I’ve never had one before…” Steven said, blushing slightly at the end. Was he oversharing again? Was he talking too much? He hoped not.
“You want to work? With that kind of cash flow?” Stan said, stunned.
“Well I’ve never had a real job, I thought it’d be a good experience.” Steven said a bit defensively.
“No, no, that's good, kid. Here I was thinking you might be some darn hippie. You’re an upstanding citizen, aren’t ya!” He said, giving Steven’s shoulder a punch. “You know, if you need a place to stay, and a job, I think I know the place…”
Dipper and Mabel exchanged glances. Mabel was grinning ear to ear. Dipper returned a fake smile to her, and frowned when she turned away. He was kind of hoping this guy who knew he and his sisters secrets wouldn’t be around to potentially expose them for long.
“Oh, uh…” Steven started. Was Mr. Pines implying...he should work here?
“Here!! “ Stan hopped over the cash register and then immediately bent over in pain, one hand on his back. “ Sh- Shoot, oh, woops, don’t do that at my age, kid. My back…”
“Are you okay!?” Steven said, looking immediately concerned.
Stan straightened up his back with a loud pop and snap and grimaced.” Fine, good as new now--what do you say about working here, at the mystery shack? Part time, of course, I can’t take on another full timer-- and I just happened to have added an extra room to the house last summer that….doesn’t fulfill its uh, first purpose anymore, and I’m sure we can clean it up enough for human use!”
“You mean the room full of those empty crates?” Mabel said.” The one that smells like wet dogs?”
“Yeah, yeah, that one. Once I get it cleaned up--you won’t mind paying the expenditures on that, right, of course not, you’re a good kid--I’ll throw in a futon and an old dresser for your use, free of charge!” Stan said, leaning forward on his cane towards Steven with a grin. “What do you think there, deep pockets?”
Steven blinked a bit. Well, he did need a place to stay, and Mr. Pines seemed pretty friendly…
Plus, he wanted to keep an eye on these kids. See if he could figure out what was going on in this town, put a stop to any danger. He was still a crystal gem, after all, even if he was on his soul searching road trip.
“Uh--s-sure! That sounds great, Mr. Pines. I’ll even help clean up if you want, I don’t want to be too much of a bother, I’m sure you’re busy…”
Stan waved a hand and flipped his cane around. “ Oh no, think nothing of it-- SOOS!” He yelled, walking past Steven. “ Get out the steam vac!!” he turned to the kids. “Hey, you two, keep our very rich guest entertained.” Then headed upstairs to command Soos.
Steven stood there, staring at the two kids.Mabel got up on a stool and started spinning around.
Dipper spoke first.
“So...uh, Steven…” Dipper said.
“Oh, yeah-- Dipper, right?” Steven responded, leaning back on the counter a little. “ Are you doing okay? No broken bones or anything?”
“I mean--I’m pretty sure I’d know if I’d broken a bone.” Dipper said, folding his arms over his chest.
“You’d be surprised.” Steven said, then shook his head. “Anyways, yeah, did you have a question?”
“Yeah, where are you from, anyways?” Dipper asked.
“Oh, Beach City, in Delmarva--” Steven started, then-
“Wait, Beach City?” Dipper gasped.
“Uh--yeah?”
“As in Keep Beach City Weird, Beach City?!”
Steven’s eyes widened and one of them twitched just slightly, and his grin widened fakely. “Oh, hah, uh, you know Ronaldo’s blog?”
“Do I!?” Dipper said, walking up closer to Steven, excited. “ He’s one of the best ARG creators ever! Do you know him? How does he do those special effects, like that video with the watermelon--what was that, an animatronic, a really detailed suit…?”
Steven’s brow furrowed. “ An...ARG? What is that? Arranged...Radical...Guinea Pigs...Arial...Racing…” He started guessing out loud. Dipper huffed and waved his arms a bit.
“No, No, Alternate Reality Game, it's like an interactive story, where you pretend it's real and even the creator pretends it's real! You must have seen him setting up his props and recording the actors and actresses--I gotta get the scoop. I know it died down a lot and I got into it after most of the interesting stuff had already happened, but there's gotta be plans for more, right?”
“Dipper, I don’t think he knows what this...nerdy story thing is that you’re talking about.” Mabel said.
“It's not-- it's.” Steven cleared his throat. “ I mean...I know Ronaldo, but I wasn’t involved with him and his projects very much…” He looked away a little, eyes a bit wider now, face flat. Ronaldo was a lot calmer these days, but had he ever got a proper apology for being knocked out, kidnapped and tied to a chair by him?
“uh...Steven? You okay there? Earth to Steven, we need you down here buddy!” Mabel said. She was waving her hand in front of his face. Steven blinked and blushed a bit.
“Woah, hey- sorry about that, I guess I’m still kind of woozy…” He wasn’t. He knew he was healed from whatever injury the car crash had inflicted by now.
“Oh, wow, maybe you should rest? Or go to a hospital, you might have a concussion.” Dipper said. “ I can have Grunkle Stan call…”
“No, no, it's fine.” Steven said, holding up one hand. “I just need to rest is all.”
“Oh, the couch is back here--” Mabel said, grabbing Stevens hand and pulling out of the shop and into the house proper. “It's the comfiest nap spot, trust me, I know all the best places to nap! And here’s a Mabel Tip; don’t sleep on the bottom of the stairs!” She giggled.
“Oh, uh- I won’t.” Steven agreed. He couldn’t help but laugh slightly as he let this kid pull him back in the house and into the living room. She was so excitable, it was cute.
Dipper followed behind with a sigh. He was apprehensive about having a stranger know their secret. He’d have to keep an eye on him, and he wished Mabel was taking this more seriously. Thinking about it, he was just glad she recently broke up with “Norman” that she didn’t seem to immediately get a crush on this guy.
When he finally caught up Steven was already out like a light on the couch.
“Yeesh, I really hope he’s right about not having a concussion…” Dipper said, and looked at Mabel. “ Hey can we talk? Now? Our room.”
“One sec” Mabel whispered. She threw afghan over the sleeping teen, and then ran upstairs loudly. Steven didn’t even stir.
Once in their attic room, Dipper shut the door and turned to Mabel.
“Okay, so, long day today huh?” Dipper said.
“Yeah! We blew away those gnomes, had an awkward hug, rescued a total hunk from a car wreck, we are on fire, bro!” Mabel said excitedly, clapping her hands together.
“Well, that-uh-hunk--” Dipper made a face and huffed. “ Steven, I mean--he knows about the journal, now..”
“Well yeah. I mean, it's fun to have it secret, but what's the big deal if one other person knows?” Mabel questioned. “Especially a handsome one like that! Hubba hubba! Do you think he’s single? I don’t want to break my heart again, not after...last time…” She said, looking off dramatically.
“Mabel, you literally broke up with “norman”” he said with air quotes “ today. And he was a bunch of gnomes who kidnapped you.”
“I’m just a girl who needs her freedom.” She said, whipping her hair back.
“C’mon Mabel, can you take this seriously--I just really don't want him telling Grunkle Stan What if he decides to take the journal away, and we don’t get to discover all the secrets inside--no fun adventures, no-”
“Then let's ask him about it when he’s done with his concussion nap, though I’m pretty sure he already said he wouldn’t, and no one that good looking would go back on a promise!” She said with a giggle.
“I worry about you sometimes, Mabel.” Dipper sighed. “ But you have a point that he did already say he wouldn’t, unprompted…” he chuckled. “ I guess someone who’s lived in Beach City would have to know about keeping secrets, the film Master Ronaldo wouldn’t want secrets of his next series to be spoiled huh?”
“Augh, spare me.” Mabel sighed. She flopped up onto her bed. “Anyways, yeah, I haven’t known Steven long, but I totally trust him, you know. He seems like he’s cool, and not just because he’s handsome. He’s just, really, really nice.”
“Too nice if you ask me.” Dipper said, sitting up on his own bed with the journal. “ Did you see how Grunkle Stan kept getting money out of him so easily? He could do with some paranoia.”
“Pft, you would say that.” Mabel laughed.
~
Steven was having a nightmare.
He was used to this, though not used to the strange lucidity he felt now. The usual cacophony of reliving his worst moments seemed gray around him.
Then he stepped backwards, into his own mental world, and blinked a few times.
“Oh, right. I guess I’m doing this while I’m asleep right now. It’d be nice if I could actually control this.” He sighed to himself. He reached forward and shut the door to his previous dreams, and began walking around the void of the mental world.
No one else was asleep this time of day, so he didn’t have to worry about accidentally jumping into someone else's dreams, or worse, waking up in their body. He could get vague impressions though, of people's minds and thoughts. It was sort of comforting, to be alone but not far from people. He could sense Stan and who he presumed to be Soos, in the adjacent “dog” room. Mable and Dipper, they were upstairs, everyone was in a state of some activity, but not distress.
What else could he sense….
He stopped in his tracks, terror gripping him.
Something was off. Something--someone--else, was coming towards him, but how?
“Well, well, well, you even left the keys in the door, thanks, I'll take a quick peek--!”
A voice, someone else wasn’t coming, it was here--in his mind!!
Steven whipped around, eyes wide, and then felt a horrible pain in his head--and turned pink instantly--he’d never turned pink inside his own head--and let out a terrible scream.
"NO!"
His pink aura filled the mental world around him and that “something” left his psychic “body”.
The last thing he saw in the mental world( or dream, or nightmare, he wasn’t sure now )was something...triangular...an eye...looking surprised…and then, delighted.
“Finally, something actually interesting is going o-!”
The voice was cut off as Steven woke up with a gasp, holding his head in one hand.
He quickly looked at his arms, checking for any signs of pink glow. Nothing, and the area around him was unharmed. He sighed in relief, but noticed his hands were trembling.
He closed his eyes and took a few moments to center himself. Deep breaths in and out.
It was just a dream. He was here, now, present, and everything was okay. He was okay.
He’d never begun dreaming again after already roaming the mental world, he must have really needed that nap.
“Hey, kid, Soos is done fixing up your room!” Stan called.
Steven shot up and ran over to the new room, past a large pile of old dog crates in the hallway.
The room jutted out a ways in the layout of the rest of the shack, but it was a decent sized room in between the parlor and the storage room and soundly built.
Soos, a large friendly looking man with buck teeth wearing a question mark emblemed shirt, was still in the room with Stan, pushing a large dusty dresser around. Steven immediately felt awful, he’d slept through all this cleaning up? He should have helped, he shouldn’t have been so lazy as too…
Steven paused, and took a deep breath, and let it out, and smiled. He’d caught it this time, a spiraling thought, and allowed it to pass through without obsessing.
“A little to the left--no, my left, Soos...perfect.” Stan said.
Soos huffed and wiped his forehead, then spotted Steven and grinned. “Oh hey there, you’re Steven, right? Nice to meet ya, dude.” He put out a sweaty hand for Steven to shake.
Steven grinned and shook with both hands enthusiastically. “Hi! Yeah, I’m Steven, Steven Universe, and you’re….Soos, right?”
“That’s me, Mystery Shack Handyman.” Soos said, and let go of Steven. “Man that’s a good grip ya go there, dude.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t hurt you did I?” Steven said, tensing up.
Soos tilted his head slightly and spoke, holding his uninjured hand.“No, no--I’m fine, its good to have a good, strong handshake.”
“Oh, haha, right, right…” Steven said.
“Yeah, yeah-- Soos, take your legally mandated break,” Stan said. “ Then go take care of the other hole in the wall in the gift shop, huh? I gotta work some stuff out with my new employee here.”
“You got it, Mr. Pines.” Soos said with a little salute. He grabbed the steam-vac and wheeled it out with him.
Stan watched him then looked back at Steven.
“Okay, kid, first off--I’ll need the number of your legal guardian or parents or whatever.” Stan said, taking out a pen and paper and handing it to Steven. “ Gotta make sure you’re not a runaway and that it's all on the books, don’t need a reason to get feds in here, ya feel me?”
“Uh, yes, Mr. Pines.” Steven started writing down his Dad’s number. He was glad he’d had to do this a few times now when seeing doctors and his therapist, and actually knew what it meant. Oh, wait…
“Oh,uh, I should let you know this.” Steven started, handing the paper over. “ Uh, I don’t have a social security number or anything like that…? Is that going to be an issue?”
Stan smiled at this revelation as he tucked away the paper and pen. This would make dodging taxes far easier.
“ Not at all, in fact it saves me a lot of work. Good for you for living off of the grid, don’t let ‘em label you.” Stan responded, then gestured around the room. “ Okay, here’s your home sweet home for the summer.”
Steven took a better look at the place. It did still smell like dogs, but he didn’t mind, it wasn’t too different from the smells Lion left all over the place anyways. It was about half the size of his old room, with a single sized futon, a mirror, and a large dresser as the only furniture, and two large windows on either side that let in a lot of light.
“It's perfect, thank you so much, I can just tell this is going to be a really good experience for me!.” Steven said, looking at Stan with big starry eyes.
Stan blinked a bit and cleared his throat. “Uh, well, good, good. So, yeah. Rent is…”
He looked at the kids face and huffed. Even if he was rich, maybe he didn’t need to gouge him too much--after all, it was just too easy.
“You’re rent’s a hundred bucks every two weeks, and yeah it includes your food.” He said, in almost a grumble, then added, pointing a finger at Steven. “But that's only because you’re paying off a good bit with your paycheck, so don’t expect to be bringing in the big bucks, and don’t let me catch you slacking off from work, especially when you get that Dondai of yours back up and running..”
“You won’t! Or, uh, I mean, I won’t--slack.” Steven said with a nervous grin.
Stan put his hands on his hips and nodded. “Yeah, well, good.”
He turned and went to walk out, closing the door behind him, and stopped.
“And, uh, hey, one more thing. The kids, they came back today kind of---you know, dirty looking, kind of worn out, and they went a long ways out to get you. Now I don’t want to keep em from having some fun summer adventures, but you know--if you see em doing anything stupid or getting into something they shouldn’t, you let me know, okay?” Stan said.
Steven stood up very straight.
“I won’t let them get hurt, I promise.”
Stan sighed. He appreciated the thought, but the kid didn't need to be so darn dramatic.
“Good, well, dinner’s at seven, don’t be late or I’ll eat your share.” Stan said. He left the room and shut the door firmly behind him.
Steven watched the door for a few seconds, thinking about his promise to Stan. It was a promise he aimed to keep. Even if it might be difficult, given the apparently supernatural nature of this town.
He picked up his suitcase and started unpacking, first taking out a picture of his mom and dad, then the gems, and then, one of him and Connie, putting them up on the dresser.
“I won’t let them get hurt, and I will have a good time here.” Steven said to the pictures, his own reflection in them staring back at him.
He then went back to the slow task of unpacking, wondering what this summer would bring, and hoping only for the best.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Steven didn’t know what was happening. He had saved most of his friends and had been taken by Aquamarine to Homeworld (Well, he’d agreed to go so it wasn’t exactly kidnapping). He wasn't sure where Lars was either and that just made him feel so much worse because he couldn’t help him and this was all his fault. If he hadn’t gone to the Zoo they wouldn’t have gone to Earth. If he hadn’t given Peridot that list of names they wouldn’t have taken his friends. But now he was on trial, being defended by an odd blue gem named Zircon who was chewing on her finger as she flicked through one of her many screens. Any time Steven tried to ask a question she shushed him loudly so Steven just curled up quietly in the triangle on the ground where he’d been shoved. What was even the point of a triangle dug into the ground?!
It felt like a nightmare. The room was just a large empty area bathed in blinding white light until the end where it was only pitch blackness. The entire room felt empty. So empty and bright. Steven’s eyes watered whenever he looked up, even if they weren’t stinging like they should be.
He sniffed quietly. He wanted to go home. He missed Pearl. He missed everyone.
“Sh.” Zircon hissed again, finding another screen overwhelmingly interesting. Or maybe she was realizing how badly this was going to go for them. Steven had introduced himself as Rose Quartz after all, he’d needed to save his friends and he’d made himself the more appealing target for Homeworld. Plus… his mom had shattered Pink Diamond. He had to take responsibility. His grip tightened on his jeans as he sniffed a little louder. His mom had killed Pink Diamond.
His eyes had started stinging and he wiped them sharply.
Why hadn’t the trial started yet? How long had he been sat here?
A flash of light and another gem was stood next to him. This one was green and kept smiling down at him. She was talking, but it was like a quiet buzzing. He trembled, fingers digging deeper into the fabric. He was going to die.
Steven was going to die.
His hand moved to his gem and he felt the smoothness under his t shirt. His mom had killed Pink Diamond and he had to take responsibility. But he didn’t want to die. He was scared. But he was so tired of not knowing anything. Everyone was hiding things from him and it was awful.
Oh, the Diamonds were stood in front of him now. How had he missed them?
The buzzing faded to lightheadedness. It was like cotton had settled inside him, dulling everything. It wasn’t acceptance. It wasn’t fear anymore.
“Where is the accused?” Blue Diamond asked quietly looking around. Steven remembered her crying in front of the palanquin and thought that his mom had caused that pain. But she’d also kidnapped his dad and that pity was dulled to almost nonexistence.
Yellow Diamond turned to look at Steven, her yellow eyes narrowing in hate as she realized he was there. “Is that Rose Quartz?! We should shatter her just for looking like that!” Yellow Diamond towered over Steven and the young boy realized if she wanted to Yellow Diamond could just squish him with her finger. It was a sobering thought that made Steven shiver.
“No. I want her to make her case. I want to know what she thinks we’re going to do to her because I want to do something worse.” Blue Diamond’s voice was cold and vicious, eyes narrowed as she also looked at Steven. It was a look that promised torture and murder.
#~#~
Lars was alive. Lars was also having a panic attack in a bubble as Green Zircon spoke about how Rose Quartz had betrayed her own kind for an ‘loud, inefficient organic’ which was unfair because what did that have to do with anything? Lars wasn’t even born when Pink Diamond was shattered. But that argument wasn’t going to help him so he just tried to stay silent, staring at the floor.
Eyeball’s address to the court had been even worse. Steven had been so happy that Eyeball had been ok, but she’d just yelled at him and called him a war criminal. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. It wasn’t his fault his mom had committed a lot of crimes. He didn’t even remember them. Why should Steven be punished for something she had done?!
Anger suddenly bubbled in his belly. Why was Steven the one who kept getting punished?! He wasn’t Rose Quartz! He was a Rose Quartz! He had never even known his mom and by now he didn’t want to. He was going to die because she’d ran away from her problems and had him. Had she known the Diamonds were still trying to destroy the Earth? Would she have even cared?
“Well I’m convinced, Let’s execute!” Yellow Diamond clapped smiling. In an odd way Yellow Diamond was beautiful when she smiled. It was like her entire face changed, becoming warmer.
This was all lost on the fourteen-year-old having a crisis in a triangle hole in the ground.
“Not yet, the defense has yet to speak.”
Blue Zircon tried. She tried so hard. Steven pitied her as she stammered because she didn’t have a case. He may be a Rose Quartz, but his mom had been the Rose Quartz that had shattered Pink Diamond and his mom wasn’t here. She was never here. She’d left Steven without a care and it still hurt, like ice resting in his heart. He didn’t even know who Pink Diamond was.
Jasper had cared about her so she could have been nice. But she’d been invading the Earth and that made her horrible like the other Diamonds. Pink Diamond could have been a heartless monster, stealing humans from their families and placing them in the zoo against their will. He would never know.
“I DID IT!” He yelled in frustration. Why draw this out? He wasn’t leaving Homeworld alive. His mom had left him this legacy and he was paying for it.
“Don’t say that!” Blue Zircon was juggling screens as she protested. Steven stood, if he was going to die he was going to die on his feet. These gems had taken his Dad, hurt his friends and threatened his Planet. It wasn’t a fight he could hope to win, but he couldn’t let himself cower.
He was just as much a part of this war now. His mom had made sure of that.
“No, I want to hear what she has to say.” Blue Diamond waved her hand and the floor moved. Light shone down on him as he rose and he fell to his knees, his defiance cut short as he lost his balance. He couldn’t even do that right. When it stopped he was still lower then them. He was still fully aware of how short he was and the helplessness was suddenly so much worse because the Crystal Gems had fought them and failed. What was he meant to do? “Well? Speak.” Blue’s voice shook as she spoke. It was a moment of emotional vulnerability that she didn’t notice.
“State your name for the record please.” A nasally voice said from somewhere. Was it one of the Pearls he’d seen at the beginning?
“I’m…” Steven paused. He wasn’t his mom.
His hand gripped his t shirt as he stammered.
“I’m…”
Why should he suffer for his mom’s actions? Why was he always being punished because of her?
“I’m…”
“Get on with it!” Yellow Diamond yelled leaning forward. Her eyes were wide, the black diamond iris staring at him.
“…My mom was Rose Quartz.” His voice was small as he lifted his t shirt. Blue Diamond leant forward sharply to look at the gem. “I’m Steven. I guess I’m also a Rose Quartz. But I’m not my mom. I don’t even have her memories. And everyone says my mom shattered Pink Diamond so I guess I did it since I have her gem. I don’t know what happened even though everyone tells me it did.” It was complicated but he was tired from trying to work it out. He was Rose Quartz until he wanted answers. Then he was Steven. And Steven was so tired of everything.
“…That gem.” Blue whispered, eyes wide.
In another world Steven had shown it in defiance as he confessed and everyone would have just passed a glance at it before wanting to know how he’d killed a Diamond. In another world Blue was distracted by her grief, her desperation for answers clouding her vision.
In this world Blue Diamond, who had sat in a room filled with bubbled Rose Quartz gems for thousands of years and stared at them until Yellow Diamond arrived to drag her away, noticed something she should have seen before. The gem was too light to be a Rose Quartz. The gem was too clear. It shined too brightly, the light catching it perfectly.
But she remembered a gem similar, a gem that haunted her memories. She saw it when she cried. She knew that gem.
“I know this gem.” She reached out and grabbed Steven, eyes haunted as she brought him closer. Her thumb kept the t shirt from blocking the gem from sight as the human struggled desperately. From her right, Yellow watched her angrily. But Blue Diamond just stared, moving a finger to touch the pink gem lightly. Steven shivered.
“Blue.” Yellow hissed sharply. Below, the Pearls had stopped their work, watching wide eyed. Even the Zircons had frozen. This wasn’t normal. This was unprecedented and no one knew what to do.
“Yellow. Look.” Blue held out Steven to Yellow, keeping the gem visible because Steven was now trying to hide it from sight. He hadn’t meant for this, he’d wanted… he didn’t even know what he’d wanted any more. It had been obvious they weren’t going to just let him go but he guessed he’d wanted them to at least listen.
If he was going to die, let him die as Steven Universe. Not as his mom.
“What am I looking at… Blue…” Whatever Blue Diamond had seen, Yellow must have seen it to because she summoned a screen and held it in front of Steven after swiping at it furiously. Steven was forced to look at a picture of his mom, sword stabbing a gem on a battle field covered in gems. He’d known she’d fought but he’d never seen a picture of it. He’d never wanted to see her like that.
She looked like a monster.
“You have her gem?” Yellow pointed sharply. “Hers?” Her finger almost went through the screen with the force of her pointing.
The hand he was stood on was shaking. Steven looked back to see tears. Hope and dread mixed in Blue Diamond’s eyes. It made no sense; the anger was gone. Why was this happening.
“Yeah, that’s my mom.” Steven pointed at Rose Quartz. Yellow Diamond took back the screen and brought up another picture, pausing before showing him. Steven didn’t know this gem, with pink fluffy hair in what looked like a pink dress. Her skin was a pale pink and on her navel…
Steven’s hands flew to his gem, suddenly short of breath.
Pink Diamond. She was smiling and it was a smile he’d seen before. It was the one his mom wore in the picture above the door. Small and beautiful. But the gem was upside down, looking nothing like Blue and Yellows. And then he realized he was being watched like a hawk. Yellow was waiting for him to do something. So Steven looked closer. It was something to do with the gem, everyone was focusing on his gem.
But he didn’t see it. It was another gem to Steven’s untrained eyes.
And then Yellow said “Poof her.” She was shaken. Something had shaken Yellow Diamond to the core.
“Yellow!” Blue’s fist closed protectively around Steven, stopping his fall as she jumped up in anger.
“If she’s Rose Quartz, her gem will be a Rose Quartz. Then we can continue this trial. And if she isn’t…” Yellow trailed off and stared at the picture. Her eyes were distant, mouth a small frown. “We’ll know.”
Steven felt the scream building in his throat when Blue Diamond’s hand tightened hesitantly and then with purpose. He felt himself being crushed and it hurt so much. It was the most painful thing he’d ever felt. He swore he could hear his bones crunching as he was forced to curl into himself. The scream breaks inside his lips as he is overwhelmed.
And then he was gone, pain vanishing as the world collapses around him.
He was in a room of white. He was aware and yet not. In the distance he heard screams but it was like hearing through water. Looking down he was naked and he was staring at his gem. The gem he loved and hated. Unable to hide it away he was fully aware of it now. How it shone in the light, sparkling as he moves. And he was aware of… something. Curiously he ran his fingers through his hair and the hair followed his fingers, curling like waves until it hung around his neck.
Oh.
He pictured his clothes and he was dressed, but the t shirt doesn’t hide the gem. There’s a hole over it, the t shirt tight on his skin instead of loose. He struggled to picture the flow of looser clothes.
Then he remembered that girl in the photo. Curious, he pictured the outfit or at least something he’d feel comfortable in. If he was right it would appear and appear it did. It wasn’t like the one in the photo, but a long pink t shirt and darker pink trousers with a piece of fabric hanging from the belt. No matter what he tried though, he couldn’t cover the gem so he just left a hole in the shape of a star around it. He’d been poofed Steven realized, he supposed it should have been obvious he could. Fusion would be impossible if he couldn’t change his form. So he was currently light?
His fingers found his gem, clothes forgotten.
He wondered how Garnet would react. He remembered her discovering he could fuse, her smile wide as she stared at him. That night they’d had a celebration meal with waffles, strawberries, bacon and cream. They’d all sat around the table and laughed as they discussed Stevonnie and how amazing it had felt. He missed that bravery, that time when everything was simple. He still loved his mom without the bitterness in his mind.
Could he move his gem? If he was light he should be able to.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was the only familiar thing around him right now. He left it on his bellybutton and instead focused on his hair. It had curled out when he’d made it longer, somehow defying gravity in how it seemed to float. He thought of Pink Diamond and cut the hair bitterly so it was slightly longer than it had been originally. He liked the slight curl he now had.
Then he considered the outfit. Why pink? Why was he pulled towards pink clothing? His moms dress was white but he felt better in pink. It was right. Natural. And it was scary because now he was poofed he could feel something in his head trying to pull him into certain decisions, especially color choices. So the pink stayed and he was stood in this shell of an outfit without any shoes because it just didn’t seem important. Then he gave himself a pink version of his sandals. Then he removed them again. He wanted something that wasn’t pink so he made them white. The pulling seemed to accept this.
Steven had no idea what he was meant to do now. Pearl had stayed poofed for days when she’d been stabbed by the Training Pearl. So did Steven choose to wake up?
The thought of waking up was like being thrown into space. The weightlessness was suddenly confining and then he was solid again. And he was still in the pink outfit which was annoying because Steven would need to poof again to change it. But he was awake and alive
And no longer being crushed to death, air leaving his lungs as he struggles to breathe through broken screams
And above him someone is sobbing brokenly and to his side Lars is screaming. Steven looks at Lars and realizes he’s still in the courtroom. It takes a few minutes to take a step forward, still adjusting to a physical body.
The Zircons were stood in front of him.
The Zircons crossed their arms in a diamond shape.
The sobbing has become louder.
“My Diamond.” They intone looking at Steven.
His gem is still a Rose Quartz. He checks, the gem visible through the star shaped hole he’d left. Surely they know he’s a Rose Quartz? “Am I still on trial?” His voice is harsh, like he hasn’t spoken in weeks when it feels like minutes. As an afterthought, he breathes slowly. It feels different. Like air through rock.
Lars is backing away from Steven, eyes wide in terror. He should reassure Lars, he steps forward to do so. But he doesn’t have the words. He’d died, he’s certain he did. But the memory is a distant dream, disappearing through fingers.
“Y… Your eyes…!” Lars screams, voice shrill in the bubble around his head.
Steven can’t see them. He touches his fingers to rest under his eye and blinks slowly. They feel the same. He didn’t change his eyes in the ball of light that had been his gem.
He wants Pearl. It feels like he hasn’t seen her in years. He wants a hug and a drink of cocoa and he wants to go to bed and nap. He wants his family. His dad. Connie. He wants Earth. If he gets home, he’ll never leave again. He’ll listen to Pearl and just stay in Beach City obediently. A sob breaks through his lips, tears leaving his eyes. Wiping his eyes makes the burning worse as he sobs.
“Oh Pink.” Blue breathes. Her hand picks him up and he’s still small in her hands. He’s still sobbing brokenly as she runs a finger through his hair. Lars is still yelling, now at Blue. Yellow is gone and that scares him. Where is she? Why would Yellow just leave? “What have you done?”
He doesn’t know. He’s a Rose Quartz but he’s being saluted as a Diamond. Blue Diamond appears to be comforting him, her finger big enough to cover his entire head. And she’s still calling him Pink as she whispers reassurances. Not Rose Quartz. So he sobs on his enemy’s hand, trying to wipe the tears away desperately even when he knows it isn’t going to work. He looks as small as he feels, in an outfit that feels wrong on him but he can’t change them like he could in the light room.
Blue hasn’t killed him yet though. He wonders when she’s going to shatter him. The waiting is the worst part, when the mere patting on his head shows the sheer strength she wields. Instead she pets him quietly. Eventually Lars’ screams stop and Steven breaks out of his daze in a panic, jumping off the hand to save him. He summons his bubble as he falls, desperate to save Lars because this is all his fault. Steven brought Homeworld to Earth, gave out Lars' name without a second thought. He couldn't bear it if Lars was hurt.
He bounces in his bubble but Lars is gone back to wherever they’d held him before. The Zircons cower in front of him like they're worried about his reaction, but Steven just stares at where Lars had been trapped. Blue doesn’t try to re-catch him, just stands and stares at him, he doesn’t recognize the look. It’s not sadness anymore. It’s not joy or fear. She just stares and Steven stares back, feeling like he’s hurt her without even trying. “What did you do to me?” He whispers. But it wasn’t Blue Diamond.
It was his mom. Whoever she was. He didn’t understand. He feels like he should, like a puzzle itself in his head but something is stopping the final pieces fitting together. It could be denial. It could be that he knows but doesn’t want to acknowledge his mom’s final lie. He doesn’t want it to be that though, because that means…
That he never knew her. That everything he thought he knew was a lie.
“Are you ok my Luminous, Radiant Diamond?” Green Zircon asks, standing next to him. She doesn’t touch him, just stands perfectly with her arms in her salute. She’s calling Steven a Diamond. Her eyes are staring nervously at Steven’s eyes. Blue Diamond still hasn’t moved. No one is moving.
Steven swallows bitterly. He’s alone on Homeworld. His friend is being held captive. Steven is still a captive.
“I want to go home.”
“Oh Pink, you are home.”
He understands and he doesn’t. He touches his eyes again. Were they pink now? They felt the same. Why would poofing suddenly change them unless his mom had ignored the nudging in a way Steven had missed.
“I want my friends.” Blue is smiling fondly now, like she recognizes something he doesn’t. “I… I want…” He wants to go back to when everything made sense. Before he was taken. Before he ever heard about Pink Diamond. “I want to go back to Earth.” The smile is gone in a flash of cold fury.
Her eyes harden, taking a step as she leans forward. Steven shrinks in on himself.
“You will never return to that wretched planet. You’re home now Pink, we can’t lose you again.” The final words are a plea for… something. Her hands reach for him before falling. Steven doesn’t care. She doesn’t pick him up again, continuing to tower over him as she speaks. “We’ll keep you safe.” A promise or a threat? “You never have to worry about that failed colony ever again.” She’s smiling again, faint and brittle. Maybe she’s trapped in a memory, Blue Diamond appears to do that a lot. But it’s clear whatever they intend to do to him, they don’t intend to let Steven leave. No one’s explaining anything to Steven and it isn’t fair. This time he doesn’t even know
part
of what him mom did to cause this.
He’s still on Homeworld. Lars is still missing. Steven doesn’t have his clothes now. And apparently, Steven doesn’t even have his eyes.
“You’ll need a new Pearl of course.” Blue Diamond is still talking, her voice light again. Her mood swings are awful and swift. “Yellow has gone to tell White so we’ll be able to fix that soon.” She looks excited and that just makes this situation feel worse.
Steven still has no answers. He has more questions instead.
“We’ve missed you so much Pink.” Her voice is watery and Steven’s eyes fill with tears like on that day in Korea where he cried her tears.
He wishes he’d listened to Pearl and Garnet.
He wishes he could talk to his mom. He just wants to understand.
“And Pink? I’m so sorry for ignoring you before.” When he was distracted Blue had gently placed her finger tip under his chin and tilted his head back until he was looking at her.
When he looks at Blue Diamond he remembers how he felt watching his Dad carried away screaming. How broken and helpless he felt. And he thinks of his Dad feeling like that when he realizes Steven isn’t coming home.
Hopelessness claws at him, dragging him into despair. But he’s still in the court room with gems who keep calling him Pink and he still doesn’t understand. But he does, because it means once again his mom lied to him. Like how she keeps lying, even after leaving him.
On his belly his gem shines, cold like the diamond on Blue’s chest.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
A party.
Something luxurious, especially in this-apocalyptic world.
And of course, no matter how luxurious it is, Rick, as a leader, must ensure that all his people don't get too caught up in that 'luxury'. Even so, he still enjoyed the party himself. Talking, drinking, dancing, or even... kissing a blonde woman he'd just met. Jessie.
Rick felt embarrassed after he kissed Jessie. He just couldn't help himself, he was 'drunk'. It had been several years since he'd been romantically involved with a woman. And of course, because most of the women in his group already had boyfriends or were even married. What's more, their partners were certainly close to Rick. Surely, Rick didn't want to betray his friends.
After that embarrassing incident, Rick immediately went to the bathroom to wash his face, then he stood still, staring at his disheveled and drunken appearance in the mirror.
"Oh - uh, Rick! Sorry, I didn't see you." Rick gasped as he saw the reflection of a woman behind him, it's you. Rick sighed and turned to look at you. "It's okay. By the way, what are you doin' here?" Rick asked casually. You, who were about to walk away, were suddenly drawn to talk to your leader, even tho the two of you weren't very close. "I was just going to wash my hands, Rosita is drunk and she spilled her wine." You explained, showing your hands. Rick just nodded, then stepped aside from the sink and allowed you to wash your hands. You just nodded. "Thank you, Rick," you said as you approached him, turned on the sink, and started washing your hands. And Rick is watching you. watching every move you make. Especially when you lean over the sink a little, it makes him swallow hard. Feeling his lust rise.
"I'm drunk too."
Unable to hold back any longer, Rick hugged you from behind, then nuzzled your neck, kissing it aggressively. This startled you and you immediately sat up. "Rick we —" Before you could finish your sentence, Rick pressed his lips against yours to silence you. "Shh, we can, baby," he murmured against your lips, as if he could read your mind. You didn't refuse. But you didn't enjoy it either, not yet. Rick kissed your lips again, this time, he started to devour them, trying to insert his tongue into your mouth.
At first, you were hesitant, but when he started to grip your hair, you began to open your mouth, giving him more access. This made Rick even more aroused, his hard cock pressing against your butt. Deliberately, he rubbed it against your butt. You squirmed. Seeing you respond, Rick became even more excited. His hands began to grope your body. His right hand squeezed your breast, and his left hand continued to hold your hair as he deepened the kiss.
Slowly, he broke the kiss and looked at you with adoration. He smiled and suddenly praised you. "Princess, you taste so sweet. Sweeter than the wine." That made your cheeks flush and you smile. "And I want to feel that sweetness inside you, can I, princess?" Even in his drunkenness, Rick Grimes still asked for your permission. You just nodded, turning to face him completely. "Of course, Rick. With pleasure," you said with a warm smile.
With that permission, Rick lifted you, sitting you on the sink. Slowly, he lifted your dress. He never took his eyes off yours. When the dress was finally lifted, he looked down, seeing your wet underwear. "Wet, huh?" he asked, slowly pushing your underwear to the side, then rubbing his finger against your wet folds before inserting it into your toght hole. You moaned. Rick grinned. "C'mon, make that cute lil' sound, princess," he coaxed, pumping his finger in your warm pussy.
Rick saw you close your eyes, and it only made him more excited. He sped up the pace, pushing his fingers as deep as possible into your pussy. He pressed your clit with his thumb, then rubbed it slowly, which made you moan even louder. You're so close to your release, "Rick - I'm so close. Rick, fuck, I'm gonna cum!" you warned him, Rick just nodded and he leaned down a little, kissing your thigh. "Yeah, cum for me, princess." he murmured on your thigh. "Cum now, princess." he demanded.
"Fuck! I'm cumming!" you screamed as your release hit you. Your voice echoed in the empty bathroom. Rick grinned, deliberately speeding up his finger movements instead of slowing down or stopping them. making you whimper. "Rick - come on, I can't take it anymore!" Rick just chuckled and slowly pulled his finger out of your wet, spasming hole. Then, he licked his finger clean, growling as he tasted your fluids, which he found sweet. You just snorted, and he looked at you with amusement.
"It's time to taste true sweetness, isn't it, princess?" he said, standing tall and looking at you with satisfaction. "Oh damn. My little princess looks beautiful like this," he praised, kissing your forehead. Then, he unbuckled his belt. Let it fall and he slowly unzipped his jeans. You can see his cock looking very hard and long, even from his underwear. Seeing you staring at it, Rick chuckled. "Why, princess? Can't wait, huh?" he asked teasingly. You blushed, turning your face away.
With that, Rick freed his cock, which was already releasing precum. You could see from your eyelashes that his shaft stood proudly and looked fat, long. Even the tip was fat. That made you swallow with difficulty. "Rick... you have a massive one," you murmured as you turned back to look at him, Rick just chuckled. "Of course, princess. I know. And I'll be gentle, I promise," he said with a nod, and you smiled.
Rick positioned himself between your legs, which were already open for him. His hands held your hips as he slowly began to insert the tip of his cock into your tight pussy. "Rick, ah! It's so full." You moaned as you felt his cock enter your pussy. Rick kissed your forehead, calming you. "Shh... princess, c'mon. You can do it. You're a good girl, you'll take it all," he whispered on your forehead. "Rick, I can't—"
"Rick, have you seen Daryl?"
The voice made both of you fall silent suddenly. Quickly, Rick pulled his cock out of your pussy, making you wince. Rick immediately put his jeans back on, then he turned around, trying to cover your body with his.
"Glenn?! What the fuck are you doing here?"
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Mornings are still something of a betrayal.
The alarm always goes off at 6:00 AM, sharp. Castiel doesn’t snooze it. He never does. He lies there for a moment instead, staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling of his apartment. It’s a small, square room that smells faintly of dust and fabric softener. His mattress is old with springs that creak with every turn, but it’s the first bed he’s ever bought for himself. The first anything he purchased for himself- aside from this room of course.
He gets up. There’s no real ceremony to it. The room is dim and colorless in the morning light leaking through his practically useless curtains, and everything inside it feels like it was chosen by someone else: a secondhand dresser, a plain table and chair, a pair of worn shoes lined up too neatly by the door. A single lamp that buzzes faintly when turned on, a flaw that leaves Castiel annoyed and strongly considering throwing it out.
He doesn’t own much aside from that. A few thrift store clothes. One towel. An electric kettle. Three books on human behavior he found in the “psychology” section of a used bookstore.
He showers. Brushes his teeth. Dresses slowly. These clothes still feel strange against his skin, like costume fabric— soft and pliable and far too changeable. He did manage to find a tan coat that fell down to his knees. The familiarity is nice. Helpful.
And then, like always, he walks to work.
The route is the same every day. Three blocks west. A left at the corner where the bakery is. Another seven blocks down, past the school, the diner, the laundromat with the always-broken vending machine.
And there's the church.
It’s enormous. The steeple claws up into the sky like it’s reaching for something. The bell tolls on the hour, every hour. On Sundays, the steps are lined with smiling faces and pastel dresses, and on weekdays it’s just stone and shadow.
The first few weeks after he got here, Castiel stopped to pray on those steps every day. He wasn’t sure who he was praying to.
He had tried
everything
— sigils, incantations, Enochian, ancient names whispered under his breath. He’d drawn symbols in the fog on his bathroom mirror. He’d burned rosemary and salt in tiny bowls and watched the smoke curl into nothing.
But this world doesn’t answer back. Not to him.
There are no angels here. No demons. No grace. Just the wind and the ache of being something so
small
.
He hasn’t tried praying in months.
His destination is the coffee shop called Bellwether. It’s on the corner of 3rd and Fremont, tucked between a florist and a yoga studio. The windows are tall and let in too much light for his taste, and the air always smells faintly of steamed milk and cinnamon.
Castiel is always the first one in.
He unlocks the doors, turns on the lights, and starts the grinder. He lines up the cups, checks the temperature on the espresso machine, sets the muffins in the case. His movements are precise, almost ritualistic. He likes the repetition. There’s a familiar comfort in knowing exactly what to do next.
He’s not particularly good at his job yet, but he’s careful and appreciative.
He likes making lattes, even though his art is clumsy. His leaves look like ferns. His hearts are always asymmetrical. Sometimes he tries swans, but they end up looking like angry worms, if anything at all.
His coworkers are polite to him, and he returns the favor. There’s Molly, who hums old show tunes while she wipes tables, and Jamie, who always forgets to restock the lids before leaving for the night. They talk about things—music, shows, the weather—and Castiel listens, nods, offers the occasional “I see.” He doesn't understand a lot of the jokes or references they make, but it's enough.
They think he’s quiet. Maybe a little strange. But he works hard, and he’s never late, so nobody ever bothers him.
The days begin to blur after a few months.
Make drink. Hand off. Smile. “Next.”
It’s not painful per se, but it’s just so empty.
And then, on a Wednesday, everything changes.
Castiel is at the register, his posture straight, apron tied (sloppily, as always). The door chimes, cutting into the slow morning.
A tall man steps inside. He has long hair pulled into a loose bun, a gray hoodie layered under a tan corduroy jacket, and a heavy canvas bag slung over one shoulder. His gaze is immediately drawn to Castiel, as if that's what pulled him into the shop in the first place.
Castiel’s breath stops in his throat.
He knows that face.
No.
He doesn’t.
Not here.
Not in this world.
He watches, frozen, as the man approaches the counter.
“Hey,” the man says casually, voice warm and low. The voice is unmistakable.
“Sorry, this is probably weird, but…” he laughs a little, scratching the back of his neck. “Do I know you? You look… crazy familiar.”
Castiel’s heart drops.
He forces himself to meet Sam’s eyes for the briefest of seconds. They’re soft.
There’s no recognition. No pain. No memories of blood and fire. There's no scar on his hand, he isn't covered in grime and scars, inside and out. He doesn't look like he'd be ready to drop everything and fight for his life at a moment's notice.
“No,” Castiel says, trying to keep his voice steady. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”
Sam only smiles again, half-embarrassed. “Huh, must be weird déjà vu, I guess.”
He gives his name for the simple order of plain black coffee, and when he finally walks away to wait, Castiel exhales for the first time in a full minute.
He doesn’t quite remember the rest of that shift.
-
Sam comes back the next day, and the next.
He always orders the same thing. He always smiles at him, tries to make conversation.
Castiel avoids him as much as he can. Volunteers to restock the pastry case. Pretends the espresso machine is malfunctioning. He even considers swapping shifts with Molly just to avoid working the morning, but he values his set schedule too much.
It doesn’t work. Sam comes in at different times. Studies at the back table for hours. Sometimes he brings a friend, nobody Castiel recognizes. More often than not he reads alone. Once, he caught Castiel’s eye and gave him a small, absentminded wave.
He doesn’t know what to do.
Part of him wants to run. Transfer shops. Move cities. This is too much. Too dangerous. Painful. The laws of reality aren’t supposed to bend like this, not anymore.
But, another part of him wants, yearns for what he had. What if he could speak to him? Sit across from him. Ask what he’s studying. Tell him about the leaves he sees on the walk to work, the clumsy latte art he tries to get right.
Could they be friends?
Would that be allowed?
He doesn’t know.
Castiel doesn't know anything anymore, and now he's got no one to ask.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The little space crab did not like being shoved into Brianna’s pocket, but she didn’t trust it on her shoulder, as it seemed to want to climb and explore and dig its way under her clothes, which she did not appreciate. Once she got it all the way
in
the pocket of her sweater, it calmed down a bit and just glared at her, looking like little more than an unusually round rock with its legs fully retracted into its body.
“Stay there,” she told it. “I’ll let you run around on the table during the meeting.”
It chittered angrily.
“You are adorable,” she told it, and left her apartment to head to the meeting. She passed Jon and Martin in the hall. Jon was back in the wheelchair after yesterday’s escapade, but they seemed in better spirits than they’d been at breakfast. She knew they’d been to see Rung, and was curious, but didn’t ask how therapy had gone, just waved and let them know she was on her way to the meeting and she’d update them if anything important happened.
About half of the group was there when she arrived. She sat by Eriond and tried to pull the little crab out of her pocket, but as reluctant as it had been to
go
in, it was now even more determined to
stay
in.”
“Sorry,” she said as she tried to wrestle it out without hurting its spindly legs. “He’s shy all of a sudden… ow, don’t nip at me you… here we go.”
The crab scrambled away from her on the table. Eriond blocked it with one arm, which it prodded curiously with its pincers.
“I fed him breakfast,” Brianna said. “He likes eggs, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Eriond said, and picked up the crab, trying to hold it in his hands, but it wanted nothing to do with him, so he gave up and just watched it scuttle around on the table.
Viktor wandered over to watch. “It is a fascinating little creature,” he said. “I wonder how the legs work.”
Eriond glared at him. “You are
not
taking him apart.”
“I didn’t say I would,” Viktor said. “Biology was never my area of expertise anyway. I’m just curious.”
“I’m more curious about their diet,” Brianna said. “If he needs the same nutrients we do or not. Eggs are a good all-around food, and he seems to like them, but he won’t be healthy unless he’s getting everything he’s supposed to. I’d love to go back to that planet and study the ecosystem and the natural behaviors of these little guys.”
“What are you going to name it?” Jayce had followed Viktor over.
“Um… I haven’t thought about it,” Eriond said, and watched the little rock crab scuttle around. He leaned over the table and rested his chin on his arms. The little crab approached and then stopped in front of his face, staring back at him. “Hmm…” Eriond said, then smiled. “I think I’ll call him Orb.” He glanced over to where Polgara and King Mendanbar were chatting.
Steven came over and sat across from him. “Hey,” he said. “Aww, I forgot how cute it is.”
“You can pick him up if you want,” Eriond said. “But he doesn’t like to be held.”
Steven held out his hand and Orb turned to investigate it, tapping it with a leg and prodding it with his pincers, but he didn’t climb on. So instead Steven scooped him up and deposited the little creature on his head.
“Hey!” He laughed as Orb burrowed into his hair.
The rock crab nestled in, retracted his arms, and held still.
“I think he thinks he’s hiding,” Eriond said.
“Well, it seems everyone’s here now,” the Doctor announced from the other end of the table. “So let’s get started.”
The chatting around the table died down slowly as everyone turned to face the Doctor.
“We made good progress yesterday,” he said. “Now, our next step may be to see if we can reclaim and
hold
a planet.”
Brianna was wary of that.
“I don’t think we can,” Sophie said. “
Some
of us might have unlimited strength, but
I
slept for about twelve hours last night and I’m still exhausted. I know I’m not the only one.”
“As soon as the Fears turned their attention on us we had to retreat,” Jayce said. “I don’t think we can hold ground.”
“Good point,” the Doctor said, looking disappointed.
“
I
think,” Eriond said. “Our next step is to see if we can fight them without using Jon as a conduit. I think the fact that we were able to combine our powers was what actually pushed them back.”
The Doctor nodded.
“Unfortunately,” Viktor said. “The only reason we were able to combine our powers was because we
could
use Jon as a conduit.”
“So we’d need to find a different conduit,” Steven said. “Sophie, you made Jon into a better conduit. Do you think you could make someone
into
a conduit in the first place?”
Sophie shook her head. “I don’t think so… I’m better with things if they’re already sort of shaped right, magically speaking.”
“Whether we can fight them without Jon or not,” Jayce said. “Our powers aren’t sufficient to destroy them entirely.”
Silence fell.
“While we were there,” King Mendanbar said, “I tried to capture some of the Fear magic with my own so I could get a closer look at it.”
They looked at him.
“And?” the Doctor said.
“I couldn’t,” he said. “It stopped existing almost as soon as I cut it off from the outside world.”
“Right,” Viktor said. “It needs fear to exist. We knew that.”
“But that does bring up an excellent point,” the Doctor said. “Our plan to trap the Fears in a black hole was flawed—for one thing, it got back out, which we should have realized it would be able to do—after all, it can tear through the fabric between universes—what’s a measly little black hole? But the larger flaw, the deeper one, was that it still had access to the universe’s fear. If we can trap it somewhere that it doesn’t, even for a short period of time, that will weaken it significantly.”
“But
is
there anywhere in the universe that it doesn’t?” Sophie asked.
“What about another universe?” Steven suggested. “Are there empty ones?”
“There are,” the Doctor said. “And I suppose we might be able to coax it into one, but we’d have to open a path to it, and then it could just come back through.”
“Could we seal it in?” Jayce asked.
“That may be difficult,” Viktor said. “Even if we could, it might have the strength to travel to another universe and start over. Remember, the first—or I suppose second—universe it devoured was left desolate—fearless—but the Fears still managed to use the dregs of their power to escape to a third. And they are much more powerful now than they must have been at the height of their power in that second universe.”
The table fell silent again.
“You know,” Sophie said. “I bet even if we had the power to push this thing off all the planets, it would just go somewhere else—to another universe.”
“Yes,” the Doctor said. “It would. So we can’t just fend it off—we
have
to trap it and kill it entirely.”
The others agreed, but they couldn’t agree on how. The few ideas put forth were shot down and in a few minutes, they were sitting quietly around the table, thinking.
Then the wall opened and Brianna looked over to see Rung emerge from it.
“Ah, yes,” the Doctor said. “Join us. We could use your insight.”
Rung hesitated, then crawled closer to the table, one hand closed in a fist. “I…” he said, then seemed to steel himself to say something. “I couldn’t help but overhear what you were talking about earlier. About not using Jon as a conduit. I’ve been thinking the same thing since yesterday, and I… um… I think I made something?”
They stared at him.
“...that might help,” Rung finished, and held out his closed hand, opening it palm up so they could see the device—tiny compared to his hand.
The Doctor got up from the table and went to take it from him. It was like a little metal planet, almost, like Saturn, with rings that sort of made handles on either side of the grapefruit-sized sphere in the center.
“I think…” Rung said. “I think it can store your powers… I’m not sure.”
Viktor took it from the Doctor and studied it, with Jayce looking over his shoulder.
“This is remarkable.” Viktor looked back at Rung. “You made this?”
Rung looked uncomfortable. “Yes?”
“I did not know you were such an engineer.”
“I’m not,” Rung said. “I’m… honestly, I’m not sure how I... but I thought it might help. If you don’t have to use Jon as a conduit, that’s probably best. It doesn’t sound like it’s pleasant for him.”
Viktor stared at it, and it seemed to glimmer slightly.
“It works,” he said. “I can infuse it with power.” He passed down the table.
The Doctor frowned at Rung, who still looked less than happy about having so much attention on him.
“Anyway,” the giant robot said. “I hope it's useful. I’ll, um… be in my office if anyone needs me. I have to... think about some things.” He turned and crouch-walked away, back through the hole in the wall.
The Doctor watched him, then looked at Brianna.
She shrugged. “TARDIS doesn’t make mistakes, I guess.” Maybe there had been more to that choice than finding a decent therapist for Jon and Martin.
“Alright,” the Doctor said. “This is definitely worth exploring. You should all try filling that device with power… and we can see if we can use it to push the Fears off of a planet as well. Maybe we don’t need Jon after all. I’m sure he and Martin would be pleased about that.”
There was a lot of nodding around the table.
“Do we think we can try that now?” the Doctor said. “Or do we want another day to recover from our last adventure?”
“Another day, please,” Sophie said.
“We’ll try tomorrow, then,” the Doctor said. “And once we’ve confirmed this will work, we’ll figure out how we can use it on a larger scale to get rid of the Fears for good.”
Martin could tell Jon was upset that the Doctor hadn’t wanted him to come along. They hadn’t taken Brianna either, or Rung, or Jayce. Only the Doctor, and anyone who could infuse Jon with power. They’d taken the little device Rung had made too.
Jon had offered to go with them—to warn them if they needed to flee like he’d done the last time. But the Doctor had pointed out that the Fears were particularly good at locating him, and he’d probably give their position away.
Jon hadn’t even bothered to pretend he wasn’t disappointed. Honestly, Martin suspected Jon would be even more upset if the others could fight the Fears without him. He wouldn’t be surprised. Disappointed, maybe, but Jon had always wanted to be involved—to stick his nose in everything, whether it was his business or not.
He sat at the table, wearing a worried expression, drumming his fingers on the surface while Orb scuttled around, watching in fascination, occasionally mimicking the motion with his little crab legs.
He darted too close and Jon noticed him and stopped drumming, looking down at the cute little creature sternly.
Orb shrank back a bit, staring up at Jon with the flat, round eyes that made him look perpetually curious and frightened.
Jon’s expression softened slightly, and he half-smiled at Orb, but then looked away—toward the space the TARDIS normally occupied, worried again.
Martin watched him, trying to sort out his conflicting feelings. At least Jon hadn’t gone with them this time, but it was because the Doctor had said ‘no.’ Martin wasn’t sure if he would have been able to talk Jon out of it otherwise. Martin had promised to try to trust Jon, but shouldn’t Jon be… doing things to earn his trust? Shouldn’t he be trying to be responsible? Also, as a side note, worried Jon was kind of cute, which was confusing things further.
Finally, Jon caught him staring, and met his gaze, tilting his head a little, questioning.
“How are you feeling?” Martin said.
“Fine.”
He had walked to the meeting today—he seemed to have pretty much recovered from the other day. “Headache still?”
“Just a bit of one,” Jon said. “Nothing like yesterday. Are you… mad at me for offering to go with them?”
Martin sighed. “No.”
Jon looked at him knowingly.
“Yes,” Martin said. “Probably. I don’t know. I’m less upset that you offered, and more concerned that you clearly
wanted
to.”
Jon looked down.
“The Eye can reconnect with you out there, can’t it?”
“Yes,” Jon said.
“How much of wanting to go out there is…
wanting
that?”
Jon blinked. “I didn’t think about that, but probably... more than I’d like to admit.”
“And you can see how that’s concerning, yeah?”
“Yes.” Jon sounded defeated.
“And also why you
really shouldn’t
go out there?”
“You’re right,” Jon said. “Of course.”
“What’s appealing about it?” Brianna butted in.
“Well…” Jon said. “I… It was sort of nice to know anything I wanted to… even if everything was terrible.”
“And I’m sure it was a bit of a power trip,” Martin said. “He was an apocalypse celebrity, you know.”
“Right,” Brianna said.
“...yes,” Jon admitted. “That too, I suppose.”
And it had gone to his head to the point where he’d considered it as his right to decide the fate of all the people on the planet.
“I think… I also feel… incomplete here,” Jon said. “It’s not as bad as it was in the times I was hidden from the Eye during the apocalypse in our home universe—but that’s just because the alphabet soup fills in the gaps. I still… feel like there’s a piece missing—just out of reach. Like an impossible to locate itch or a phantom pain in an amputated limb.”
Brianna nodded.
“I’m glad we have the prospect of Steven healing me,” he said. “Otherwise… I somehow doubt I’d ever be able to come off the alphabet soup. I’m just not…” he shot a guilty look at Martin and turned away.
Martin watched him, genuinely worried about him now. “Jon?”
“Incomplete,” Jon said, narrowing his eyes. “The power was still incomplete, when I tested it.”
He’d been able to draw it from the thing Rung had made, apparently.
Martin frowned, but didn't push the issue. He didn’t want to be told Jon wouldn’t ever get better—that he wasn’t human enough to survive without supernatural intervention. It wasn’t like Martin didn’t
know
that already. He was almost relieved Jon had changed the subject.
“What does that mean?” Brianna asked. “Are we missing someone?”
“Yes.” Jon got up from the table. “Excuse me a minute.”
They watched as he crossed the room and knocked on the wall.
It took several long, quiet seconds before Rung opened the door.
“Hello, Jon,” the big, orange and white robot said. “Is… there something I can help you with?”
“Are you
absolutely
certain you don’t have any magical abilities?”
Rung looked past him at Martin and Brianna, then shrugged. “Not that I know of,” he said.
“Can I… try—”
“Jon,” Martin said. “Don’t pressure him.”
“It’s alright,” Rung said, but hesitated. "I... it's possible that any member of my race might be able to contribute to the powers." He put a hand to his chest. "Our sparks could possibly be considered supernatural... especially in this universe. But I'm really not remarkable among my own kind. Unusual, perhaps, but not..."
Jon frowned. "Could any member of your race have made that device that you gave them?"
Rung looked away. "...no. But I can't explain that. It's not the first time something... but I don't know what it means."
Jon sighed, then held out a hand. "Do you want to know?"
Rung hesitated again. "I've always wanted to know," he said. "But... for some reason I'm afraid of you telling me."
Jon deflated a little. "Right," he said. "That's reasonable."
"But if you think it might help fight the Fears, you're welcome to try drawing power from me. Just don't be disappointed if nothing happens."
Rung reached out, and Jon put one hand against the tip of his index finger.
The room was still for a moment, and then Jon gasped and stumbled back. Martin got up out of his chair to rush over, but Jon stayed on his feet.
“What?” Rung asked, withdrawing his hand. “Are you alright? I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine,” Jon said, and coughed a couple of times. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Rung said. “I felt that, so I assume you were able to draw
some
form of power from me.”
Jon took a deep breath. “Yes, and… whatever the case, I do think you’re the missing ingredient, as it were.”
Rung nodded, looking troubled.
“I’m… sorry if that’s unwanted news?”
Rung shook his head. “No, just confusing” He smiled. “But it’s fine—that's nothing new. I’m glad to be of more help in fighting the Fears. I… I’ll see you later today for your private session.”
Jon nodded, and Rung retreated, closing the door behind himself.
Jon walked back over to the table and slumped into the chair across from Martin again, looking exhausted.
“Are you alright?” Martin asked. “What was that?”
Jon nodded. “I’m just a bit winded,” he said. “He’s…” he spoke in a whisper. “He’s at least as powerful as Eriond or Steven.”
Brianna’s eyebrows shot up.
“And it… I almost passed out for a second—I think his powers are in opposition to the Eye…
and
the End. Each of the heroes fights different Fears, you know… sort of. It's not perfect and it all gets mixed together...”
“Really?” Martin said. “As a… therapist and all, I would think he’d fight the Lonely.”
“No,” Jon said. “In fact… I worry a bit. We
do
tend to forget he’s there…” He looked at Martin. “You’ll let me know, if… if
you
start to feel, um… Lonely, won’t you? I still think the Fears are creeping in through the observation deck.”
“Yeah,” Martin said, smiling. “I’ll… I’ll try, at least.”
Jon nodded, slumping forward a bit. A shadow of something—pain, maybe—crossed his features, but then he looked back at the empty space where the TARDIS usually was. “Shouldn’t they be back by now?”
“Depends,” Brianna said. “It’s only been what? Forty-five minutes?”
Jon sighed and crossed his arms.
“We don’t
have
to be here when they get back,” Martin pointed out. “If you’re tired, we could—”
“I want to know,” Jon said. “I want to know if they can fight the Fears without me. If so… the only thing they might need me for is luring the Fears somewhere. I would very much prefer that.”
“Right,” Martin said. “You told me having all of their magic powers flowing through you wasn’t fun.”
“It wasn’t.” Jon said.
He’d said it hurt. Martin looked down at his hands.
The chest wound had closed up again. As much as Jon insisted it was random, or had to do with the severed Eye connection, Martin couldn’t help noting that it had opened up when they were fighting. And it had closed again once they’d reconciled.
And… it bothered him that Jon never noticed. It hurt—Martin
knew
it hurt, so why did Jon always have to be told whenever he started bleeding again? Did it just…
“Jon,” Martin said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
Jon looked up. “Yes?” he asked, studying Martin’s face in a worried sort of way.
“Does…?”
The whoosh of the TARDIS cut him off, and everyone turned to watch it appear.
It was apparent, even before the doors opened that something had gone wrong. The TARDIS appeared fine, but the flower crown wrapped around its roof smoldered and smoked, and the cheerful yellow flowers were blackened and wept burning ashes.
The chain snapped and fell to the floor as the doors opened and the group stumbled out, coughing and soot-covered.
“What happened?” Brianna got up and went to meet the Doctor.
“We got a little too close,” the Doctor said.
Brianna looked around the group “Did everyone make it back?” she asked.
They didn’t answer.
“Can we…” Eriond asked quietly, “Can we… go back for him?”
“We waited as long as we could,” The Doctor said. “We were going to start losing more people if we didn’t leave.” He glanced over at King Mendanbar, who had walked a little ways away from the group and was staring up at the ceiling in mild fascination.
Some of the others seemed off as well. Polgara had an arm around Eriond, but there was an absent, almost empty look in her eyes. Viktor was more frail and gaunt-looking than ever. Eriond was shaking, eyes welling with tears.
Martin’s blood turned to ice as he realized who was missing.
The Doctor came and sat at the table next to Jon.
“What happened?” Brianna demanded.
“There were people, calling for help,” the Doctor said. “He rushed off before we could stop him.”
“You went somewhere with
people
?” Jon demanded. “The whole reason—”
“We didn’t realize there would be people,” the Doctor said. “It is really
remarkable
how many places you find people when you don’t expect to.”
Jayce had popped into existence and was guiding an exhausted-looking Viktor over to the table. “Were you at least able to push the Fears back at all?”
The Doctor shook his head.
Martin’s heart sank further, and Jon put his face in his hands.
“We… have to go back for him,” Eriond said. “We can’t just leave him out there.”
“He
chose
to run off,” the Doctor snapped. “And… and he’s probably still alive. Steven is quite powerful. He’ll... be fine. And we still have some of his power in Rung’s device, so we can hopefully stop the Fears without him.”
Steven.
“You could…
try
though,” Brianna said. “Right? If you know where you left him.”
“We can try,” the Doctor agreed. “Once Sophie makes us another garland for the TARDIS. Though I will be going to look for him alone. I don’t want to risk the rest of you. You’re all important in your own universes.”
“We aren’t,” Viktor said. “We’ll go with you.”
Jayce nodded.
The Doctor looked conflicted.
“I’ll get started on the garland,” Sophie said. “Though we might need to pick up some more of the flowers.”
“I’m not important in my universe,” Jon looked up. “I’ll go with you too.”
“No,” the Doctor said.
“I can find him,” Jon said. “I can connect to the Eye and find him.”
“Absolutely not,” the Doctor said. “We can’t risk you. The powers won’t even
interact
with the Fears unless they go through
you
, so if we lose you, then we’ve lost
everything.”
“But I—”
“No.”
“I can get him back.” Jon said.
The Doctor sighed and shook his head. “It’s not worth the risk,” he asserted. “We’ll find him after this is over. He can still heal you then, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”
Jon stared at him for a moment, then shoved out of the chair and stormed off toward the door.
Martin shot the Doctor a dirty look before rushing after him.
He caught up out in the hall. “Jon.”
Jon ignored him.
“Jon.” Martin grabbed his shoulder, and Jon stopped. He was shaking slightly.
“You’re probably relieved,” Jon muttered bitterly. “That he won’t let me go.”
“No,” Martin said, feeling guilty. “I’m not. I’m actually with you on this one. But… I don’t know if there’s anything we can do, not without the TARDIS.”
They couldn’t ask Steven to heal Jon. That wasn’t an option anymore.
King Mendanbar walked past them with an intense look on his face. Martin watched him as he took a side hallway, muttering to himself.
He could still hear arguing from the storage room behind them.
“Look,” he said. “Let’s… let’s go back to the apartment for now. Maybe Brianna and Eriond will convince him to let you go. They’ll have a better chance than us at that. And… I think you need some alphabet soup.”
Jon sighed. “Alright,” he said softly.
Martin took his hand and led the way toward the elevator.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
April 1
st
, 2002
“Congrats Dr. Fenton, it’s a healthy baby boy! All ten toes and ten fingers with a working set of powerful lungs!”
The nurse finished cleaning the still screaming baby off and placed him gently into the sweaty and exhausted arms of Maddie Fenton, next her, her husband was leaning over to get a look at the still slightly purplish infant.
“He’s perfect!” Jack said. “Look Maddie! He’s got your ears!”
This was the first time Clockwork had to interfere directly in Danny’s life, he watched as the nurse who had been considering going to work sick that morning found a wad of cash with just enough funds to get her through the month with the lost pay. If she’d gone into work, she would have been in charge of handling the new baby and Danny would have gotten sick, weakening him for most of his childhood. That childhood illness would shape how his parents treated him and how they ran their lab space.
It was not an ideal timeline.
It would also not be the last time Clockwork would have to interfere.
*****
Clockwork had not been born, nor had he ever been
dead
in the literal sense of the word. No Clockwork had burst into creation when the ghost zone had finally fully formed. It had been a long time ago, longer than anyone but himself could number. All eight realms of the dead, connecting from their own living realms had knit themselves together into one cohesive whole, outside of time and space, and Clockwork had appeared, as a watcher.
The living realms had watchers, beings of unimaginable power whose only job in the whole world was to watch history unfold.
Clockwork was their ghostly equivalent.
Or at least he should have been.
Watchers were meant to be neutral, they didn’t interact with others, didn’t reveal themselves, didn’t do anything but compile knowledge and
watch
. It was all incredibly boring and uninteresting, especially for a being who had the ability to see into all possible future timelines simultaneously without getting a migraine. Clockwork already knew everything the Watchers were watching for. He knew everything they would never get to see.
So, for the first few seconds of his existence Clockwork did his duty by the universe. He watched.
Then…well…
The thing he was watching started making the
wrong
choices and Clockwork knew that if it kept going on like that then he wouldn’t like what he had to watch at all. So he might have…broken the rules a bit. If there were rules for creatures like him. And the moment Clockwork decided to interfere suddenly the universe became so much more interesting to watch. And so Clockwork began to interfere, to make sure the stories he watched, the big ones, the great ones, remained interesting.
All of this is to say that Clockwork knew about Danny Fenton millions of years before he was born. He knew about him before the human race existed, before the gods were anything more than mortal. He knew what Danny would become, he knew what fights he would face, and he knew what would kill him. It was laid out clearly, the best possible story, the best possible thing to watch.
Danny would be born, he would grow up and become a half ghost, he would fight bad guys and protect his town. Danny would be forced to face a future version of himself, be forced to confront the burden and horror of his powers. Danny would fear himself. Danny would meet other heroes and grow, he would fall in love and he would forgive himself. He would learn to love himself. He would become the best version of himself that he could be. He would go to Jontunheim, he would be forced to Xandar, he would face Thanos and lose. He would be saved by a rag tag team of heroes who protected the galaxy and he would be given the location of the soul stone. He would go to Vormir, he would face Red Skull and be told he had to give up the life of someone he loved to gain the soul stone.
And then, Danny would die.
It was the perfect ending, Clockwork knew. Danny would give up his living form, and become a full ghost, he would have the soul stone and he would defeat Thanos after becoming king over all ghosts. The realms of the undead would be unified and an era of peace between the living and the dead would result that would be unlike anything before seen in all of time.
It was perfect.
And well, if Clockwork had to interfere a bit to make sure the boy got to where he needed to be, so be it.
So, Clockwork had leaned back and let time roll forward. He interrupted when it became needful and made sure that no ghosts disturbed the timeline. He built a tower and he
watched
.
And watched.
And watched.
He saw the rise and falls of entire worlds, planets bursting into life and being snuffed out. He watched it all and he kept the balance between life and death. He did what he had to do to keep the universe from destroying itself and he watched. He did not chafe under the monotony, why would he? This was what he was made to do. The Observants trying to tell him what to do did make him chafe however.
Things began to change for Clockwork with Danny. Danny had been a chapter in the long pages of history to Clockwork. He hadn’t mattered aside from the fact that he would be one of the few beings that Clockwork would reveal himself to. Clockwork had known everything that would and could happen to Danny, and he knew which path the boy had to take to save the universe.
Clockwork had known all of that, but he hadn’t even guessed what Danny would do to him.
*****
May 19
th
, 2006
- Clockwork had to end a rainstorm so that Jack Fenton wouldn’t have a car accident, killing Danny and Maddie.
February 2
nd
, 2007
– Clockwork prevents Danny’s death.
December 24
th
, 2008
– Clockwork had to possess a human and guide a runaway Danny Fenton back to Fentonworks before he got injured by slipping on black ice, giving himself a concussion.
August 8
th
, 2009
– Clockwork had to stop the Mansons from moving away from Amity by ruining a business venture of Mr. Mansons before it could take off. He didn’t need more money anyway.
September 10
th
, 2009
– Clockwork infected Dash Baxter with chicken pox so that he didn’t go to school for a week, averting a timeline where the Fentons never built the second portal.
October 15
th
, 2009
– Clockwork returned a lost dog to a man in Wisconsin creating a chain reaction of events that allowed Vlad Masters to purchase his castle.
March 6
th
, 2012
– Clockwork stops Danny from getting kidnapped on a school field trip.
January 12
th
, 2013
– Clockwork prevents Danny’s death
again
.
April 29
th
, 2014
– Clockwork stops Danny from dying.
July 3
rd
, 2016
– Danny dies for the first time.
*****
Those were just the notable events of course. Danny was something of a trouble magnet and it seemed as if the universe itself was trying to foil Clockwork’s plan of saving it from total destruction. All of this was fine, not planned for, but not so unpredictable as to throw Clockwork off. He sometimes did not know the exact timeline someone would choose until the very moment they chose it, this only meant that he had to react quickly and watch Danny’s life closely to ensure things played out properly.
He didn’t expect to
care
.
He was a being of true neutrality, Danny’s life going this way was the best for the universe. It wasn’t personal, nothing was for him. Except annoying the observants, that
was
personal. Either way, Clockwork shouldn’t care how well Danny did on his quizzes, he shouldn’t care if the boy was able to find the last pop tart in the box as an afterschool treat. Those things didn’t matter to the timeline, Clockwork knew, and yet…
And yet they mattered to Danny.
Clockwork didn’t understand why the boy’s happiness mattered to him. Truly he didn’t. Yet he started doing things to make sure the boy was happier than he needed to be. When he and the boy finally met in person, the urge to help the boy increased exponentially. He gave the boy missions so that he could have time to safely explore his powers and have fun adventures. He gave him advice in his own cryptic way and always allowed the boy to find him when he wanted or needed a place to be. He offered comfort and guidance and he did all of this without knowing
why
.
It wasn’t until the boy was on Vormir, having been given the location of the soul stone by Gamora in a last ditch effort to stop her father from destroying the universe that Clockwork realized what it was.
He watched as the boy climbed up towards the top of the hill where Red Skull waited. Danny was injured and hungry and tired but he didn’t stop, he kept going and he was so
good
. Clockwork could almost imagine the pain the boy was in, surviving the blast from the power stone would have devastated his body. Thanos had held him up by the neck and blasted him directly with the power stone, electrocuting him from the inside out in a gross parody of the accident that had killed him the first time. Then the boy had been rescued by the guardians, and their first aid had not been gentle. Part of him wanted to freeze time for a while, let the boy rest before his final end, but there was no point to it. Danny’s pain would end in mere minutes, he would die and his mortal ills would be gone.
His memory of pain would be gone. Most ghosts don’t remember much of anything after their death and Clockwork knew that Danny would be no exception. He would have vague memories of the living people he’d known, enough to know that he loved them. Enough to still be a hero to them. But he would not know them. He would not know anything but his purpose, his purpose as a ghost to rule the undead realms and to protect the innocent.
Clockwork knew that giving the boy time to rest would be pointless and yet he still wanted to lessen his burden in those last few moments.
Why?
Why did he want to stop this? To slow it down? This was the plan. It had always been the plan! Clockwork had been moving this plan along for centuries, the past decade alone had been filled with work just for this one moment. Danny was going to die, he was going to become the ghost king, he was going to leave behind everything he’d known before, just to save the universe.
Even me.
Wait.
That’s it.
“I don’t want to lose him.”
Clockwork was about to lose
Danny
. The Danny he knew, the one he had mentored and protected and guided for the past 17 years was going to die and disappear forever. He would never speak to Clockwork like he did now, Clockwork would never again send him green passive-aggressive post-it notes. It was about to end, all of it. And Clockwork was about to
watch
it
happen
.
“No.” Clockwork said. “No. There has to be some other way.”
But there wasn’t. There
wasn’t
. Danny needed the soul stone, the only way to get the soul stone was for someone to die, someone Danny loved. Anyone Clockwork brough to Vormir for that purpose would destroy Danny to lose. Clockwork focused his powers bringing in everyone single one of Danny’s loved ones and watched the timeline of their deaths, trying to see if there was one where Danny would still succeed, where he would be happy with that victory. Because if Danny wasn’t happy, if he wasn’t well, then
what
was
the
point
?
It couldn’t be his parents, not his sister, not Sam, not Tucker, not
Peter,
not any of the Avengers or Shuri. No. No. No. There wasn’t anyone.
Unless.
Clockwork froze time reflexively at the very idea. It was insane. It was improbable. It was
stupid
. But love made one stupid didn’t it? He looked at the timeline, the new one his idea had just created and focused. Danny would be happy, he would remain half ghost and he would…he would
win
. He would. The world would be fine, the undead realm would be fine. It would work.
Probably.
For the first time, floating there in the timeless space of his tower, Clockwork wasn’t
sure
. If he was going to do this, the fate of the universe would rely entirely on chance. Which was so stupid of him.
And yet. He glanced at the exhausted look on Danny’s face and realized his choice had already been made. He nodded to himself. There were a few things he had to do then, to give Danny the best chance he had.
*****
“Welcome Danny, son of Jack.”
“Holy shit Red Skull? How are you here? What the fuck?”
“A lifetime ago I sought the stones.”
“I know that, my friend Captain America punched you in your nazi face.”
“I held one of the stones in my hands.” Red Skull continued, his teeth gritted in annoyance. “And the stone cast me out, sending me here and forcing me to guide others to the treasure I cannot possess.”
“
Right
. The tesseract curses nazis, good to know.”
“The stone comes at a terrible price, are you willing to pay it?”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Then come.”
Danny warily followed the ghost-like nazi up to the top of the gloomy cliffside. Red Skull wasn’t like any ghost Danny had ever seen before. He wasn’t dead but he wasn’t alive and he wasn’t like Danny himself. It was more like the guy was stuck in some sort of purgatory. When they reached the top of the cliff, they stood between two gigantic carved pillars. Red Skull led him between them and then stopped, motioning towards the cliff edge.
“What you seek lies in front of you, as does what you fear.”
“
Right
.” Danny said. “And that is?”
Gamora had not told him there would be a nazi here, nor that he would speak in riddles. He was going to talk to her later about that.
"The price. Soul holds a special place among the Infinity Stones. You might say, it is a certain wisdom."
"Okay, that makes sense. Always want to protect powerful magic objects. What do I have to do?”
"To ensure that whoever possesses it, understands its power. The stone demands a sacrifice."
"Of what?" Danny pushed.
"In order to take the stone, you must lose that which you love. A soul for a soul."
“
What
?”
But…Danny blinked, there was nobody here. He was alone. The Guardians had given him the coordinates for Vormir, had even stolen for him a small ship so that he could get here on his own. They were now off leading Thanos away from Vormir to give Danny time. How was he supposed to sacrifice a soul for the soul stone when there was only him?
He looked down at his hands, his
human
hands and then out at the cliff’s edge.
“So…someone needs to die and then, then I get the stone?”
“Someone you love.”
“Okay.” Danny said. “I can do that.”
And he
could
. He couldn’t even think what it was, but he knew he could do it. He had done it before, once. This time he knew better, he knew he wouldn’t become a monster. Loki and the others had helped him learn that much. If he died, truly died, he would still be good as long as he did good. And Danny refused to believe in a reality where he wouldn’t do good.
He thought about the destruction on Xandar, about the horrors Gamora and Nebula and Loki had all described. About what Thanos had done to him just because Danny had posed a threat to him. He considered all of that as he took a few steps closer towards the cliff’s edge. He thought about his human life, about everything he loved. He loved it all so much really. He loved his family, his friends, he loved
Peter
. And this was for them. He was giving it all up for them, for the universe. His feet stopped right at the edge of the cliff, sending a couple of loose pebbles down the side to fall to the platform far below.
“If you die, you won’t get the stone.”
“Shows what you know.” Danny snarked. “Now shut up. I don’t want my last living conversation to be with a nazi.”
Danny closed his eyes and then had a thought. He pulled out his phone and quickly opened up the camera, he began a recording and swallowed at the image of himself. He was covered in bruises and he looked like he’d been run over by a tank.
“Hey
me
.” Danny said. “When you see this, just know, that…that you died, that I died, to save the universe. You probably don’t remember much of anything and that’s okay, it’s okay if you’re scared or in pain. All of this was to get the soul stone, to stop Thanos from destroying everything I love. Look through this phone and you’ll see, you’ll see who you were. There are people waiting for you on earth, people who love you. They’ll love you even if…even if you don’t remember them. They’ll help you. So just…go down that hill and get into the red ship, ask it to take you to earth and you’ll find your home, use the stone to save it and…and be kind to people? Please? You’re going to make so many great friends and have so many great adventures. You can be happy, if you choose to be.
I was.
Oh! And there’s another thing, I guess. I told everyone in my life that I loved them before I left earth so they know, everyone but…but one special person.”
Danny carefully removed the courting necklace he’d made on Jontunheim what felt like a lifetime ago, and lifted it up so that the camera could catch it.
“I made this for Spiderman, he’s…he’s one of my best friends and I
loved
him. Like loved loved.” Danny said. “I’ve never actually said it out loud before, but it’s true. Please give this to him and tell him for me? Tell him I’m sorry for not being brave enough to tell him earlier. Tell all of my family and friends that I’m sorry, if you can actually. I didn’t want to leave them but I had to, because you, you Danny Phantom, are the one the universe needs. It doesn’t need me, it needs you, and so I’m giving myself up and I know you’re going to do great, Danny.”
Danny nodded once and then ended the video. He carefully put the phone down, letting it stay unlocked so that his future ghost self would still be able to use it. He wrapped the necklace around it, knowing that the rainbow light would catch attention. There was no guarantee his ghost self would pick the phone up, he might just take the soul stone and run, but Danny had to hope.
He stood up. He was ready. All he had to do was die. Simple enough. His ghost half would remain and get the stone and Thanos wouldn’t. He lifted up his right foot.
“Daniel.”
Danny froze in shock but quickly flipped around. Sure enough there was Clockwork. Red Skull was still there, trying and failing to look unsurprised at Clockwork’s sudden appearance.
“Clockwork!” Danny shouted. “Oh my g-d, it’s you! What’s happening? Is everythin-”
“You don’t need to do this Daniel.” Clockwork said motioning to the cliffside.
“But the stone, do you have a way to get around the protections?” Danny asked, hope swelling in his chest.
“Something like that.”
“Now is not the time to be cryptic.”
“Daniel. I’m not a ghost.”
“What?”
“Not truly.” Clockwork said. “I exist in the universe, a soul created with a purpose, I did not die, rather I was created to match the realm I was meant to watch.”
“I don’t…”
“You’re not going to die today Daniel, you’ve so much more to do.”
“But I could do that, or well Phantom could do it!” Danny argued. “And someone needs to die for the soul stone.”
“Yes. Someone does.”
It took a moment for Danny to understand what he meant. When he did he nearly fell off the cliff behind him in shock.
“
No
.”
Clockwork just nodded, his form shifting to that of an old man.
“No.” Danny argued. “No! I won’t let you! That’s insane! You’re Clockwork! You…you keep the timeline from imploding! You can’t die!”
“Daniel, if I die, the universe will go on.” Clockwork said calmly, his form shifting again to a more childlike appearance. “There will be another to replace me eventually and before then I trust you to keep any ghost from causing mayhem.”
“But I…” Clockwork floated forward, placing a hand on Danny’s shoulders, cutting off his argument.
“I have existed for millennium Daniel. I have seen every moment of time and viewed countless alternate could-have-beens. I know that if you die here and now, then your plan will succeed, Phantom will rise and the universe will be saved. But I also know that you will be gone, Daniel. I can’t abide that.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be neutral?” Danny pushed. “This isn’t non-interference!”
“No. No it isn’t.” Clockwork agreed. “But I’ve always been a bit of a rulebreaker.”
Danny was starting to panic, he couldn’t let Clockwork do this.
“But you’re supposed to be there! To make sure I don’t…that
nothing-
”
“Just moments ago you were confident that nothing would happen.” Clockwork said. “You needn’t worry about Dan or Vlad, both are locked away safely in my tower, a place that only you will have access to after this.”
Danny choked and tried to tell Clockwork to shut up, tell him that this wasn’t right, that he wasn’t going to play along with any of this. But his entire body was frozen. Clockwork had frozen him in time, forcing him to listen.
“You’ll get the stone, you’ll go to the ghost zone and you’ll take the crown.” Clockwork said. “It’s time to become the king you were meant to be. I’ve known you were going to become this for millions of years Daniel, and it’s
time
. The last two kingdoms, the fire giants and the dwarves, they are ready. The dwarves were devastated in an attack by Thanos and the king will bend the knee to you in the name of revenge. The queen of the fire giants has been in contact with Frostbite and is of a similar mind. I sent the messages out, they know what is to come. They are all waiting for you at Pariah’s Keep, at
your
Keep.”
Danny fought against the hold of Clockwork’s powers, begging with his eyes for the master of time to
stop
.
“Become King, stop Thanos and most important of all Daniel, be happy.”
No. No. No.
“I have loved you since I knew you Daniel, loved you as a father loves a son.” Clockwork said. “I did now know it, but it’s true. I have cared for you, guided you, and helped you not because I had to for the sake of the universe but because I
wished
to.”
The ghost changed again, he now looked like an adult. An adult who hugged the frozen Danny carefully. Danny wanted to scream. Clockwork had been one of his rocks, one of the few ghosts he trusted, really the first ghost he had ever trusted fully. Clockwork had saved him countless times and in the back of his mind Danny had always known that the ghost would be there for him if he needed.
“The universe will be fine in your hands. I know it with the certainty that all humans know things.” Clockwork promised, floating back so that Danny could look into his eyes. “You know the rules for time travel, you know what’s safe and what isn’t. I’ve taught you that. My tower will be there to guide you if you need it and when the time comes for a new ghost to replace me, I know you’ll lead them there and help them as I helped
you
.”
He moved to Danny’s left, and Danny knew that it was happening, and he wouldn’t be able to stop it.
“I won’t make you watch.” He said softly. “And I know you’ll hate me for freezing you, but I refuse to fight you, not now.”
Carefully Clockwork reached out and placed his scepter onto Danny’s form. A flood of energy went through Danny and he gasped, even frozen as he was.
“May the blessing of Clockwork the Watcher give you strength.” He said. “Let my blessing strengthen you and guide you to a path full of happiness, let my blessing stay with you even while I cannot.”
Clockwork let the scepter fall to the ground at Danny’s feet with a thud. Then he moved out of Danny’s line of vision, Danny tried to bring his powers out to break out of Clockwork’s control, but he couldn’t. He
couldn’t
.
“Goodbye Daniel.”
From behind Danny a burst of orange light appeared, creating a fiery pillar, he fell to his knees as Clockwork’s power disappeared. He had no idea how Clockwork had done it, how he had killed himself, but it had happened and it racked his soul with agony. He screamed and flipped around, despite knowing it was too late. He found himself standing on a lake of solid water, surrounded by light. In his hands was the soul stone. He screamed again as the stone was gifted to him. In front of him stood Clockwork, who just smiled and wished him luck.
When he came to, he found himself lying on the stone cliff of Vormir, with Clockwork’s scepter, the soul stone, his phone, and the courting necklace.
“No.”
He was alone. Red Skull had disappeared, his duty done. So, Danny laid there, tears dripping from his eyes and words of denial spewing from his mouth. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t want that stupid stone. Not if the price was this.
It took a few minutes for Danny to pull himself together. But eventually he had to. He pushed himself up and dried his eyes. He let the transformation pass over him and picked up the stone, the soul stone sparked in his hand and he felt the power flood him. He hardened his jaw.
He had a war to win.
*****
The chair beneath him was incredibly hard. The clock on the wall would not stop ticking and the pencil in his hand was leaving indents in the pad of his thumb. Carefully Danny turned the page to the final question, it was his eighth grade English final. The last question was always a doozy, the teacher would copy a question from an AP exam as a wild card to test them. Jazz had helped him study for this. He was ready.
Question 3:
Many works of literature feature characters who have been given a literal or figurative gift. This gift may be an object, or it may be a quality such as uncommon beauty, significant position, great mental or imaginative faculties or extraordinary physical powers. Yet this gift is often also a burden or a handicap. Select a character from a novel, epic, or play who has been given a gift that is both an advantage and a problem. Then write a well-developed essay analyzing the complex nature of the gift and how the gift contributes to the meaning of the work as a whole.
You may choose a work from the list below or another work of comparable literary merit. Do not merely summarize the plot.
Danny looked down at the list of about 20 books, some he’d read in class and some he’d never heard of outside of the SparkNotes twitter. He paused at the bottom of the list, the name looked oddly familiar.
Danny Phantom
He frowned and glanced at the notebook paper next to him. He knew this one. He
did
.
Oh right!
Quickly he started roughly sketching out an outline, Mrs. White always loved an outline and would give extra points if she saw one. Danny Phantom was a hero! He’d been given super powers. He could walk through walls, disappear! He could even fly! Phantom could shoot lasers out of his hands and he fought bad ghosts and saved the day with his powers. Danny wrote down all the things that Phantom could do, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he concentrated. Phantom had been gifted so many great powers and abilities.
He paused.
But what was the handicap?
Nothing right? He was a superhero! He protected his friends and family, people loved him, and he saved the world a bunch of times! There was nothing better than Danny Phantom!
“Psst Danny.” Someone hissed. Danny looked over to see Sam Manson sitting in the desk to his left.
“What?” Danny whispered.
“Wake up!”
Huh? Danny blinked stupidly at his friend. Of course, he was awake, he was in the middle of taking his English test. He looked back at his paper, tapping the tip of his pencil against his outline. He had no idea what Sam was up to, but he
had
to answer this question. Were there any bad parts of being Danny Phantom, of the gift he’d been given?
Someone coughed and Danny looked up to see Tucker Foley, his best friend. His friend readjusted his dorky glasses and then motioned for Danny to lean towards him. Danny did so, carefully glancing at the teacher to make sure she wouldn’t notice. When he was close enough his friend opened up the top of his desk enough for Danny to peek inside.
“Check it out!” Tucker whispered. “I found it in the backyard this morning!”
Sitting in the center of the desk was a glowing orange rock.
“What is it?” Danny asked scrunching his face up in confusion.
“T̶̡͈̯̻͙̯͒̔͆̽ͅȃ̸͈͕͚̤̜͔͚̰͆̌k̶̪͔͙̯̎̏́̒e̴̛͖͒͜ ̸̬̞̆̽̐͌̕i̵̜̮̤̥͑̔̾̉̓͋t̸̪̥̙̼̣̔͒.”
Danny yelped in fear and fell back in his seat at Tucker’s voice.
“Mr. Fenton.” Mrs. White said. “What is the matter?”
Tucker’s face was starting to melt into goop, purple ink flowing over his skin like an awful infection. Danny looked at Tucker in horror and Mrs. White huffed in disappointment.
“Eyes on your paper, Mr. Fenton, wake up and focus on your work.”
“Yes Mrs. White.” Danny said forcing himself to stop staring at his friend. The words on his test swam and swirled on the page.
Burden. Handicap. Problem.
He didn’t understand, what was the problem with being a hero?
The clock on the wall started ticking louder and louder while Danny tried to write down a few ideas. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock. TICK. TOCK.
Danny rubbed his ears trying to block the noise. But it just kept getting louder and louder. He screwed his eyes shut in pain from the constant banging noises.
“You need to wake up Danny.”
“No.”
“W̵̢̨̡̛̛̲͔̟͓̺̙͓͉̟̭̍͊̓̒̂̎̄̌̋̋̆͗̀̐̈́͒͊̈́͛̽̑͊̌̽̒̀̂̐̀̃͐͆͗̏̓̓̕͘̚̕̚͝͝a̵̡̢̡̨̢̨̡̛̛̹̬̞̯͎̱̣͎̪͖̙̰͎̰͍̗̠̤̣͙̅͛̓̈́͌͗̀̂̇̇͐͒̏̽͌̿͂̏͊̒̾̇̎̊̎̽̓̿̒̓̏̊̓͗̾̏̈̿̀̿̐̅̈́̍̀̓̆́͘̕̚̚͝͠͝͝k̸̨̡̡̧̢͖̩̠̙̻͎̱̬̹̺̟̖͚̯͎̮̬̠̟̞͇͖̫̱̫̲̲̗̬̬͎͙̪̰͓̗̱̹͍̲͎̖͎̩̦̗̗̥̭͎̰͕̟͍̘̤̮͇͎̯̫̩̩̳̇̽̏̈́̃̑̑̈̽͂͂͌͐̒̈́̈́̇̏̋̽̎̚͘̚͜͜͝ͅͅe̴̛̗̙͕̩͕̦͖̞̫͎̩̝͓̟̪̰̫̰̖̪̣̫̱͖̋̽͛̿͂͒̽̽̋̾͐̾̓̾̽̌̊̽̈̑̐́̈́͊͐͆̏͗̾̈́́͑̇̏͌̈̓̈̆͒̇͛͋͂̅̆͐̾̋̀̉͂̅̍̉͐̊͘͜͝͝͠͠ͅ ̸̢̢̧̡̪̫̠͎̖͕̗̖̝̞̘͕̦̟̫̬̫̳͍̦̻̗͍̟̣͉̩͔̩̠̣̲͍̥̻̩͕̭̗̰̅̾̾́͛͆͌̒̽̆͗͌̄͗͆̒̆͆̋͑̊͜͝ͅư̵̧̡̨̨̧̘̗̮̹̬̼̹͍͎̤̗̣͈͚̩͎̝̝̝̞̝͖̻͙̖͕̠̤̖͈̖͈̫̼͕͍̝̝̮̦̹̖͍̫̹̣͚̫̿̔̇̈́̒͗̽͌̄͛̔̈̂̃̋͋̆̌̈́̅̋̒̋͒̀͐̕̕̕̚͜͠͝͝͠p̸̨̨͎̠̱̩̖̖͔̲̪̩̪̖̣̥̥͖̟̱͈̺̞̖͐̓̅̿̒͑̉̽͛̋͒̎̊̋̈́̎̄͐͑͊̆͆̇͂̐̚͘͘”
Danny woke with a gasp. The room was dark and cool, he couldn’t even hear the hum of electronics. His vision was blurry, and his throat felt incredibly sore.
“Danny?” Someone whispered making him wince at the noise.
“Mom?” He croaked.
“Oh my baby boy.” She cooed, leaning over so that he could finally see her face. His vision still wasn’t clearing much but from what he could see, his mom looked exhausted. Her hair was frizzy and there were giant bags under her eyes. “Thank g-d you’re awake.”
“
Wha-
?”
“Honey, you’ve been in a coma for over a week.” She said. “You didn’t start showing signs of wakefulness until today. We didn’t think you’d recover.”
He blinked a few times trying to get his brain to understand what she was saying. With each blink his vision slowly cleared into something resembling normal. His mouth felt so dry he thought he might
die
. He tried to sit up, to get some water but his body just screamed at him for the centimeter of movement he attempted, and he keened in pain. Instantly his mom pushed him back into place and asked if he wanted some water, he could have ice chips according to the doctors. The chips of ice felt heavenly on his tongue, his mom patiently feeding him one by one as his body began to wake up and make its complaints known.
His legs hurt, his stomach was aching with emptiness, his right arm felt…
funny.
He couldn’t move any of his body and trying to tilt his neck to investigate his arm was made impossible by his mom who kept turning him back to look at her.
“What do you remember last honey?” She asked.
What did he remember? His mom sounded so concerned so he did his best to focus his mind to the last thing he knew. He’d been taking a test, an English test right? No…no…
Thanos
He gasped again and tried to cough out the words. His mom immediately ran a hand through his oily hair and shushed him comfortingly.
“Thanos.” He gasped out. “He was…and I
was
- There was the-”
“Everyone’s okay sweetie.” She cooed again, scratching his scalp like she used to do when he had nightmares. “You saved everyone.”
“I did?” He coughed.
“Yes.” She said. “You almost killed yourself doing it, using that gauntlet to bring everyone back.”
“Everyone?” Danny croaked out, his mind flashing back to Vormir.
“Everyone who fought in the final fight.” She said. “A lot of fighters died, Vision included, but you brought them back to life with a snap. The gauntlet nearly killed you.”
He remembered then what he’d been trying to do, what he’d tried to
undo
.
“
Mom
.”
“It’s alright.” She said. “You did a good job. We’re so proud of you. Just rest for a bit, a doctor’ll be by soon to check you over.”
He fell asleep to her petting his hair.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
⚔️⚔️⚔️
Zoro was in the middle of his 1635th kata when the trapdoor creaked open. It was already past midnight, the time the ship got quiet enough to hear the ripples of water against the hull. Even though Sanji would usually be asleep by this time, once in a while he lingered, climbing to the crow’s nest when there were no more prying eyes – so Zoro wasn’t surprised when smoke curled around him.
He did fifteen more katas to round up the number, then sheathed Wado with deliberate care and bowed. Sanji waited quietly next to the trapdoor, only moving after Zoro finally turned and their gazes met. There was something restless about him, present only in small, hidden gestures that revealed impatience and unease – details only a trained eye could see. Zoro let out a short breath, grabbed a towel and wiped his sweat drenched skin.
“I think Nami knows,” Sanji said, as Zoro dropped the towel on the bench and sat down.
“Yeah, I noticed it too this afternoon.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze slid down to the floorboards, focusing on the small dent he had accidentally caused when he first trained on the Sunny in Wano – right after Luffy had dragged Sanji back from that wedding. He rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight.
“Just seeing me climb here isn’t enough… I think something else raised her suspicion,” he added, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “She even came to probe earlier.”
Zoro’s hand stilled at the back of his neck, fingers pressing in hard. “So what? Let her suspect. How does that affect us?”
Sanji stepped closer until Zoro could see the tips of his shoes between his feet and feel the cook’s heat radiating near his head.
“I don’t get it,” Sanji murmured, low and sharp.
Zoro leaned back against the bench. Sanji towered over him, smoke curling from his cigarette, and only one visible eye fixing him. Despite the question, no traces of confusion were apparent, yet his expression was deeply inquisitive. “What?” Zoro asked flatly.
“You’re fine if they figure it out on their own,” Sanji said, each syllable sharper than the other, “but completely avoid the idea of us making it public.”
Zoro saw Sanji’s muscles tense right under his gaze. There was a pressure in his voice that almost revealed the fear of retaliation, and Zoro didn’t like that – what he wanted was to be the one to soothe and provide comfort, yet it wasn’t always that easy. He had to take a brief second and think about the entire situation. He could never be sure with Sanji and his indecisiveness. It had always been a game of push and pull between them. For all the times he was drawn into the cook’s hot embraces, there had been an equal number of refusals. The initial confidence Sanji had shown back in Arabasta soon turned into the tumult of the sea in a hurricane. It had taken great effort for Zoro to convince him that he wouldn’t demand anything Sanji himself was not prepared for. Eventually, he’d grown used to this state – it had become a refuge, a balance that felt natural. It was understated, but safe. No promises made that risked being broken later.
Yet, Edonia seemed to have brought Sanji’s insecurities back to the surface. Maybe their nature was different now, but they fell in line with who the cook was. They had been challenged with a ‘what if’ scenario they weren’t ready for. Zoro was at a loss; he didn’t know if Sanji’s attitude was just a whim caused by the recent context, or something he truly wanted. The worst part was that Sanji’s current fearfulness unsettled him. Did he really give the cook the impression that this was an untouchable subject?
“This and that are different matters,” he finally said. “If we decide to change anything, it shouldn’t be because of circumstance or outside interference. We are what we are, on our own terms.”
Sanji’s lips straightened into a thin line, smoke billowing from his nose. “That’s the problem, though. What are we?” He raised an eyebrow, a faint trace of bitterness and hesitation accompanying the gesture. “You keep saying that, but we’ve never defined it. And it gets so blurred at times, I don’t even know what to think.”
“Cook…” Zoro narrowed his eye. Okay, Sanji clearly needed a label now – something to hold onto. People expected that eventually, he supposed, so he really couldn’t blame him for it. He could even sympathize, though he had no idea what word he needed to offer to soothe him. “What do
you
want us to be?” he asked, figuring it was easier to hand the choice to him.
“A couple, a pair, lovers… I don’t know. Something clear.” He blurted quickly, like the determination might vanish if he hesitated. His deep-blue eye pierced through Zoro, a faint flush dusting his cheeks. “Not just a release, someone to go to in order to sate our thirst. A full, exclusive couple. I’m tired of this uncertainty. We’ve been doing this too long for it to be anything else.”
Zoro’s chest tightened, his pulse stumbling. A strange warmth surged through him. These were really strong words, words he’d never expected coming out from Sanji’s mouth first. He took Sanji’s hand, pulling it to his lips. It was warm and soft compared to his tattered, rough skin, though scattered cuts, burns and calluses from cooking gave them a richer texture. He pressed it to his lips, a firm kiss over the back, then a soft, lingering one in his palm. Sanji’s fingers twitched against his chin, so Zoro rested his cheek in his hand. His thumb gently massaged the cook’s wrist, tracing lazy circles as he felt his pulse beating steady through his veins.
He could do this – he was able to embrace the present, the now, as it was presented to him, no matter what label Sanji wanted to use.
“Then we’re a couple,” he answered in a soft voice.
Sanji let out a heavy breath, almost a release, the tension draining from his frame. Warmth traveled through Zoro’s body as the cook’s thumb caressed his cheek, so he leaned into it. Sanji plucked the cigarette from his mouth, letting the smoke curl upwards.
“And I want you to clearly turn others down,” Sanji added, the spark of determination igniting his voice. “What happened on Edonia – the way Donny was all over you, and you just stood there, indifferent… you have to give them a clear ‘no’, Zoro. Otherwise, they won’t stop.”
Zoro gave a low chuckle, tugging Sanji closer until his knees pressed the bench. He wrapped his arms around the cook’s waist, resting his head against his abdomen. He wanted to sink into his warmth, make him part of himself. “Fair enough,” he murmured, fingers tracing idle lines down Sanji’s spine. “Though I didn’t even realize what he wanted until you pointed it out.”
“Stupid moss-headed idiot,” Sanji muttered, ruffling his hair before stubbing the cigarette in the tray by the window. “How the hell did you even get laid before we started this?”
“Dunno. It just happened.” Zoro shrugged.
“Yeah, pretty boys kept falling on your–”
Zoro cut him off with a sharp jerk of his thigh, pulling him closer until Sanji landed half in his lap. He caught him by the tie and dragged him into a deep kiss, one hand squeezing firmly on his waist. Their warm mouths crashed together, moving hungrily against each other. With a flick of his tongue, Zoro broke the kiss only to pull Sanji’s other leg until he sat in a proper straddle.
“Until an even prettier blond came along,” he said, nipping at the cook’s lower lip, “and ruined all the rest.”
Sanji’s breath shivered against his mouth. Zoro let his tongue slide between his parted lips, tasting the full flavors of herbs, cigarette and the sea. Heat coiled low in Zoro’s belly as his hands slid along strong thighs, muscles taut under his palms.
Sanji pulled back just enough to push Zoro deeper against the backrest. “Don’t call me that,” he protested with a slap over Zoro’s chest, though his fingers lingered there. He sank his them into the muscle, calluses scraping over skin and making Zoro’s nerves spark, stirring him to life.
This was something he knew well, something he could do. The push, the banter, the heat, letting their touches speak for them – it was a familiar dance, the one that he could keep up with. His lips curved into a hungry smile as his eye roamed over Sanji’s body.
“Not pretty, then. You’re a menace,” he said with a low rumble, tugging his shirt out of his pants. “So – you really want to tell the crew?” he asked, taking in the feeling of Sanji’s hands travelling down his abdomen. The post-training soreness made Sanji’s touch send shivers through his bones, making him eager for them to go lower.
Sanji paused, staring at him as if he’d been given the most difficult math problem.
Zoro brushed his thumb over Sanji’s lips, gaze steady. “It would cause a lot of meddling, and – while I know what you do is out of courtesy and fun – even the way you act around ladies might be affected.” His eye studied the way the red flush crept higher on Sanji’s face. It was almost unfair how cute he could be when caught unprepared. “All the questions Nami would ask…” he trailed off, fingers busy unbuttoning Sanji’s shirt.
Sanji pursed his lips. “Yeah, yeah. I get it.” He leaned closer, lips catching Zoro’s ears, teeth tugging until Zoro hissed.
Zoro felt all his hairs rise. The way Sanji’s breath brushed over the sensitive skin of his neck quickly erased all coherent thought. When those talented fingers finally slid lower, brushing his waistband, Zoro’s hips jerked up, betraying his eagerness.
“Such interference does sound troublesome,” Sanji said around the earring, his words muffled but sharp. “As long as we’ve cleared this up… I’m fine keeping things as they are.”
Sanji’s fingers slid inside Zoro’s pants, pulling the waistband down and freeing his erection. He wrapped his hand around it and gave it a tentative stroke as his tongue slid up Zoro’s ear, teeth scraping the helix.
A shudder ran through Zoro at the sudden warm touch, his hand flying to the back of Sanji’s neck. He pulled him roughly by the hair, crashing their mouths together, making him melt on his tongue.
Sanji’s hips started moving in Zoro’s lap, keeping the same rhythm as the thrusts of his hand. A slow, lascivious swing that made them both hot, sweat seeping out through their pores.
Zoro’s hands roamed over Sanji’s chest, kneading and rubbing, twisting and pinching. The contact made his fingers want more, yearning for all of Sanji being wrapped around his hands. With slow, measured movements, his hands trailed down Sanji’s abs one by one. Once they reached the cook’s pants, they made quick work of the buttons, then pulled his boxers down, releasing his hard cock. They both let out a low grunt as their heads bumped into each other.
Zoro wrapped his hand around the cook’s and brought their erections together, making Sanji release a trembled sigh over his mouth, his lips begging for a kiss. His thumb trailed over their dripping tips, mixing their precome together, easing the slide of skin on skin.
As their movements heightened, Sanji curved his back, bringing their bodies closer together. They locked their lips together again in a deep kiss meant to burn everything around them. Sanji snaked his free arm around Zoro’s neck, running his fingers through his damp, green hair.
Breath growing heavier, Zoro pulled Sanji even closer, his hand pressing hard against the small of his back, cocks sliding faster together. He relished each of Sanji’s moans, his body growing hotter and tighter. The way their hips moved in a fast, steady rhythm, the feeling of their lengths pressed together, the sweet slide that made every inch of his body tingle – everything was so good. His hand pumped harder and harder. It didn’t take long for the heat to travel down to Zoro’s balls, his entire body tightening and twisting, until something finally snapped and the orgasm hit him hard.
“Shit,” Zoro grunted, still pumping roughly, cock throbbing against their hands. The slickness of his come made them slide faster still, and Sanji’s hips jerked against him as a trembled moan escaped his throat.
When he felt the last drop being squeezed out of him, Zoro squinted his eye and shook his head. He let out a huff, trying to ground himself, then hauled Sanji down from his lap and pushed him against the bench. His body was still buzzing from the pleasure, his limbs heavy with every move. He slid down the cook’s body, leaving a trail of kisses as he tried to catch his breath. With the utmost care, he licked his own cum from Sanji’s stomach and length, making sure no traces were left behind. His mouth was dry, his throat parched, like a dying man in a desert. He took Sanji’s cock into his mouth, overwhelmed by a thirst he’d never felt before.
With a heaving breath, he started bobbing his head, holding the cook’s hips in a bruising grip, pinning him in place. He was a man on a mission, and he knew he had to reach the destination sooner rather than later. His heart still pounded in his chest as if it wanted to break free, and he could feel his eye drifting away together with his consciousness. The static in his head covered all the sounds, so powerful it even drowned Sanji’s moans.
He inhaled as if starved for air, tongue curling tighter around Sanji’s cock, their tastes mixing together in his mouth. His pace grew more chaotic when he felt the cook’s hands pulling his hair with force. Zoro hummed as his fingers dug deeper into Sanji’s hips, feeling the other tense under his grip. The sloppy sounds of skin, mouth and saliva finally hit him when he felt the cook throb deep in his throat, filling him with his hot juice. He swallowed everything, then licked even the last drop from Sanji’s length, kissed his hipbone, and with a last, long breath, he collapsed over him and blacked out.
…
🌀🌀🌀
When Sanji woke, the sky was draped in pre-dawn grey. A heavy weight pressed down on his stomach and his fingers were tangled in something soft. Blinking, he raised his head, only to find Zoro sprawled over him, dead asleep. He assessed his surroundings – the crow’s nest.
“Shit!” He jolted upright, jerking Zoro off him. The swordsman thudded to the floor from the sudden movement, releasing a heavy groan.
“What the hell, cook?” he mumbled, rubbing his head.
Sanji froze as the cold air hit his skin. His pants were still undone and his stomach was damp from the mosshead’s drool. Fury surged in him, his leg flying straight into the other’s ribs, cursing under his breath. “You damn furnace. You made me fall asleep.” He shot up from the bench, fumbling to straighten his clothes. “Brook must be up already!” He darted to the window. Sure enough, the galley lights glowed on deck.
A dull thud on the leather bench made his ears twitch. He spun to see Zoro plopped there, arms crossed over his chest, facing the wall.
“Are you seriously going back to sleep?” Sanji hissed, cheeks burning hot from Zoro’s obliviousness.
“Mhm…” Zoro hummed, curling more around himself.
Would you look at that? As if they hadn’t had that whole conversation the night before. Sanji shook his head, taken aback by their own contradictions. Here was Zoro – snoring like a damn cat, while he was the one wound up with worry that they may be discovered by their crewmate. Brook could walk in on them any minute now, while Zoro simply couldn’t care less.
He came to the realization that, indeed, Edonia had warped his thoughts. It twisted him up until everything felt like a loaded question. All that fretting over nothing, when he clearly preferred the current state of affairs. So what if his dearest Nami had her suspicions, or if even others on the crew already knew? As long as no one confronted them directly about it, things were much better as they were. One thing he knew for sure – this night had given him clarity about where they stood. In the end, he was grateful that they’d finally talked.
He dug through his pockets, pulling a cigarette and his lighter. The first drag of nicotine released the morning numbness from his limbs. He let the smoke curl out through his nose, enjoying the immediate high, then kicked Zoro sharply in the buttocks and muttered, “Move your algae ass to the men’s quarters. I’m sending Brook up.” Without waiting for an answer, he slipped through the trapdoor, first heading for a blitz shower, then to the galley.
…
When Sanji stepped into the galley, Brook was perched at the kitchen island with a steaming teacup in hand. He tipped his hat in greeting and gestured toward the pot.
“Good morning, Sanji-san! I took the liberty of preparing extra tea – would you care for some?”
Sanji nodded with a grateful smile, heading straight to the pantry. “Thanks, Brook. I’ll throw some breakfast together real quick.”
“Don’t mind me,” Brook replied, pouring a second cup. “I can wait until the others wake up. In fact, I should head up to the crow’s nest to relieve Zoro-san.”
Sanji glanced at him. “No rush. Finish your tea. Knowing him, he’s probably out cold out there.”
He gathered some flour, eggs and jam, deciding that pancakes would have to do for breakfast. He’d also pull some ham from the fridge for their bottomless pit of a captain and their resident sweet-allergic Marimo.
But as he returned to the counter, it dawned on him – Brook must have noticed his absence from the men’s quarters when he woke up, yet he hadn’t said a word. Sanji’s lips tightened around his cigarette. He’d become too careless recently, intoxicated by the recent events, he acted too sloppily for himself. Should he probe? Maybe Brook hadn’t noticed his absence in the dark room. No, that could make matters worse.
His spiraling was cut short by the door slamming open. Heavy footsteps pounded against the floorboards, making them both jump as Zoro stomped in with a loud yawn, fingers scratching his belly.
“Marimo! What the hell?!”
“My heart almost jumped out of my chest – though I don’t have a heart. Yohohoho!” Brook cackled, eye sockets fixed on the intruder.
Zoro looked at them flatly, then clicked his tongue. “Too early,” he grunted, heading straight for the sink. His shoulder bumped against Sanji’s, making something boil deep inside the cook. By the time he’d filled a glass of water and downed it in one go, Sanji’s face was as red as a lobster.
Why couldn’t the idiot just listen to him once? – Sanji asked himself as small flames came to life on his leg. “Oi, get out of my kitchen!” he snapped, booting Zoro away from the counter. “You’re not allowed in here while I’m cooking!”
“The fuck’s your problem? I was thirsty!” Zoro shot back, hand flying to his swords.
“Yohoho! Such energy even at the crack of dawn,” Brook chuckled, lifting his cup.
A fiery kick sent Zoro tumbling into the far wall as Sanji slammed his hands on the counter. “And stay out! Go sleep, you idiot, or better yet take a damn bath – you reek of sweat!”
“Oh, you wanna fight?” Zoro drew his blades. He plunged ahead, steel ringing against leather and bone. They became a blur of limbs and swords, filling the galley with curses and grunts.
And yet, Sanji felt lighter – this was actually a good sign. He hadn’t felt so relaxed ever since Edonia, and their banter hadn’t carried the same edge in the past few days. He finally felt invigorated, as if he’d managed to get rid of something heavy from his chest. They exchanged blow after blow, blood pumping wildly inside their veins.
“Ahem.” Brook cleared his throat delicately, still seated, teacup in hand. “While I admire your vigor, I’d recommend lowering your voices. Unless, of course, you wish to be met with Nami’s wrath,” he said with a calm demeanor.
They both froze, blade pressed to leg, eyes snapping toward the skeleton.
“The hell are you talking about?” Zoro demanded.
“Yeah, why would Nami-swan be angry?” Sanji added, cigarette bouncing between his lips.
“As a matter of fact, I offered to help them last night with the puzzle. Tedious work, I must say – especially since all the pieces are white. But we finally managed to put a few parts together.” Brook placed the cup on the counter, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “And it seems what we’re piecing together may not be a treasure map… but a love letter.”
Their jaws dropped in unison, stuttering wildly. They took a step back and stared at their crewmate.
“Shit…” Zoro muttered.
Sanji clicked his tongue and lit another cigarette. This was an utter disaster.
“Needless to say,” Brook continued, folding the napkin neatly, “our navigator is not pleased.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
VOLUME II : THE CURSE OF MNEMOSYNE
Chapter Seven: The Jump
|
10.5k | 8/29/25
Mike is rooted to the spot, and he’s thinking of Will. His eyes fall on the red blood on its claws and the bullets in its chest, and Mike just about breaks.
Did it kill–
Mike’s heart tears in half as tears bubble up in the corners of his eyes. He gasps as the Demogorgon rears back, and Mike thinks about the Quarry again.
He was ready to join Will in their shared demise.
Together.
Now, Mike is ready to join Will in death once more, life ended by the same killer.
One grave.
It will always be one grave for Mike and Will.
Mike wouldn’t want it any other way.
Chapter Eight: The Titan and the ******** | 12.3k | 9/5/25
Two chains are melded into his shoulder blades. Metaphorical wings of metal binding him down and reminding him of his burdens. What he has to be: Normal. A false pretense of freedom.
These wings were not made for flying.
They were made only to be chains.
Chapter Nine: The Heart | 12.3k | 9/12/25
His head tilts as he looks down at Will, basking in the golden glow of Fall, and Mike knows this is a point of no return. Confusion and regret write out his past within moments like this. It followed him after that moment on the balcony, reaping his night of sleep and leaving him staring at those dead eyes of the one who would call him a sinner.
Mike continues to feel it within the pit of his stomach, but it’s easier now to forget it. To smother it in favor of the warmth that comes with this feeling of desire.
Time passes within this bubble of light: orange-leaved trees dancing with a gentle wind, the smell of warm midwestern heat, two hands swaying side by side, brushing with each step they take deeper into this realm of peace.
Chapter Ten: The Curse of Mnemosyne | 4k | 9/19/25
A voice screams his name. He says it like a prayer, and maybe if Will never had wings, this voice could’ve brought heaven down to him like an oath sworn Paladin.
In a parallel world, maybe Will could’ve accepted this oath as a Cleric. In this world, the two would walk the roads of fate together. Under ancient canopies of golden trees, and kissed by a light worthy of their love. Hearts beating together. Reverent touches. Eyes full of stars and souls made of daylight. They would follow each other, bound for fields of Elysium.
Bound for the garden of Eden.
Together, always.
Chapter Ten Part Two: Always | 9.2k | 9/19/25
How do you know when you’re in love?
Because if what I feel for El is love… then love doesn’t compare to what I feel for you. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.
I just wish I didn’t feel anything.
------ ----- ------
Coming soon...
Volume III: 10/3/25
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Jeudi 19 décembre 2024, 15h49
"Misère. J'ai l'impression d'être un girafon sous kétamine".
Dans le couloir des chambres, Klaus ne marche déjà plus droit, se prenant les murs, comme à l'époque où il était sans cesse sous l'emprise de substances. J'essaye de le stabiliser : de toute façon, sa seule destination est son lit.
"C'est ironique", dit-il presque en riant, "Je crois que je vais devoir annuler mon rendez-vous de spiritisme de 16h30".
"Pour la première fois en trois ans ? Personne ne t'en voudra".
Il a une tête à faire fuir ses clients, de toute façon : ses cernes sont immenses, il tremble, il transpire. Pour la nausée qui l'a déjà saisi, même le gingembre ne fera rien : il trouve dorénavant rance l'odeur de sa propre kombucha.
Il lutte un instant contre le rideau de perles à l'entrée de sa chambre, comme s'il s'agissait d'une nuée de mouches, mais finit par le passer et clopiner jusqu'à son lit où il s'écroule.
"Combien de temps j'ai, Rinny ?"
Nous savons tous les deux de quoi il veut parler. C'est juste une question de temps avant que les fantômes cherchent à nouveau à lui crier leur détresse.
"Quatre ou cinq heures, si c'est comme pour moi".
Il ne dit rien, il attrape l'un de ses oreillers en velours moutarde et le serre contre lui. J'avais comparé ce moment au calme avant la tempête, un peu plus tôt, et maintenant je la sens monter : comme quand le vent, quand il se lève avant la pluie. Tout autour de nous, je peux déjà percevoir l'énergie frémir de volutes spectrales. Et rien qu'à la façon dont Klaus cligne avec les yeux dans le vide, je sais qu'il est terrifié.
"Eh".
Je m'assois à côté de lui.
"Ça va aller".
Il tarde à répondre, alors je pose une main sur son bras, plus doucement que ce dont je me serais crue capable, mon pouce lui adressant même la réassurance discrète d'une infime caresse. Il ferme les yeux, comme s'il l'avait espéré pendant quinze ans, puis inspire profondément.
"Comme on disait au Texas... ça n'est pas mon premier rodéo".
Il glousse, d'un rire qui se mêle à un sanglot. Parce qu'il a toute conscience des réflexes et pulsions qui seront les siens envers un 'silence facile', en réponse aux hurlements d'outre-tombe.
"T'en fais pas, je ne te demanderai rien", me dit-il comme s'il était désolé d'y avoir seulement pensé.
Mon pouce s'arrête, et je fronce légèrement les sourcils. La vérité, c'est qu'il va de toute façon devoir gérer ça tout seul, car je m'attends à ce que Max me siffle très bientôt au Métro, à la prochaine opportunité.
"Je ne vais sûrement pas pouvoir rester", lui dis-je, et il acquiesce faiblement.
"Je te promets que je ne ferai pas de connerie".
Je capte un moment son regard. J'ai entendu ça si souvent, pour qu'en fin de compte il ne tienne pas le coup, et que je le retrouve assez défoncé pour avoir oublié son propre nom. Pourtant, cette fois, c'est différent. Je me souviens de la force que lui avait donné la conscience de son immortalité, juste avant le reset. Et je ne doute pas une seconde de ce qu'il est devenu.
"Donne moi ta main", lui dis-je en me penchant vers le bureau, identique à celui que j'ai toujours connu dans cette chambre.
J'y attrape le marqueur dont il se sert pour se préparer, avant les séances de spiritisme de son cabinet. Je retire le capuchon avec mes dents, dans un petit bruit sec, tandis qu'il me confie sa main gauche sans force. Je m'applique, reproduisant le tracé que j'ai eu le loisir d'observer pendant plus du tiers de ma vie.
'Goodbye'.
Il me regarde faire, il ne dit rien. Il reprend juste sa main lorsque j'ai terminé, et me donne tacitement la droite, pour que je continue.
"J'ai confiance en toi", lui dis-je.
Et tandis qu'un sommeil fiévreux commence à faire papillonner ses cils humides, j'achève de tracer un encouragement à accueillir ce qui s'en vient, même quand je ne serai plus là :
'Hello'.
---
16:03
Le couloir des chambres est silencieux, maintenant que Klaus fait une sieste. Comme pour moi, la fatigue a été plus forte que la nausée, insurmontable. Et probablement, il aura besoin de ces heures de sommeil, car les suivantes pourraient être chaotiques et hachées.
Je reprends mes esprits, je m'apprête à faire un pas en direction du Grand Escalier. Mais je m'arrête net.
Là, en plein milieu du couloir, se tient Benjamin, un bras barrant sa poitrine, et son son autre main touchant nerveusement son menton.
"C'est fait ? Vous avez réussi ?"
Cette question est avide, comme si de cette réponse, dépendant l'éventualité que - lui - retrouve lui aussi une part de lui qui lui manque cruellement. Je n'avais pas de doute quant au fait que la perspective de regagner ses pouvoirs - même temporairement - finirait par faire sortir Benjamin de son terrier. Mais il me cueille à l'improviste, alors je passe une main sur mes yeux tout en acquiesçant.
"Tu as tout entendu, hier. Tu sais que nous ne pourrons rien faire sans toi".
Nous nous fixons un instant. Et en toute conscience de ce que je m'apprête à dire, j'ajoute :
"Ni sans Jennifer".
Ses yeux s'enflamment, comme si de prononcer ce nom à voix haute mettait déjà quelque chose en marche. Brusquement, il me tire jusque dans sa chambre, où mes yeux s'écarquillent.
Les dessins sont partout, comme dans la cellule qu'il a récemment quittée. Sur les murs, sur le bureau, sur la porte de sa penderie. Il l'a dessinée sans relâche, depuis qu'il est arrivé, et pour la première fois avec une forme de fragilité, telle que je ne lui ai jamais vue, il murmure :
"Elle est quelque part, dans cette timeline aussi. Je la sens".
Ma tête pivote lentement vers lui. Alors - même sans son pouvoir - il garde une forme de connexion à elle ? Je veux bien le croire. Et je comprends peut-être un peu de ce qui l'a rendu aussi aigri au fil de toutes ces années, où il était enfermé, soigneusement tenu à distance d'un morceau de lui-même.
Selon Max, Jennifer existe dans toutes les timelines où Ben respire : tous les deux sont - comme Abigail Hargreeves l'a dit - les deux faces opposées d'une seule et même entité. Ben a été réimplémenté par Oblivion : mécaniquement, Jennifer aussi. Dans la timeline de la Purge, et par conséquent ici.
"Nous devons la trouver, où qu'elle soit", lui dis-je en m'approchant de l'un des dessins, où le visage parfait de Jennifer - au fusain - est comme brûlé par le contact de ventouses de ténèbres. "Elle fait partie de toi. Alors elle fait partie de nous".
Mes yeux se tournent instinctivement vers le coin le plus sombre de la pièce. Là, immobile dans son hoodie noir, ses mains dans ses poches, le fantôme de Ben est en train d'écouter.
Oui, l'idée a fait son chemin en moi. Même si Abigail la considère comme notre opposé destructeur, Jennifer est une personne avant tout. Qui a été enfermée dans des conteneurs, assassinée de façon répétée dans de multiples lignes temporelles, perpétuellement traitée comme un danger. Elle a souffert des lubies de Reginald, autant que nous tous. Et peut-être même plus, car dans la solitude absolue.
"C'est ce que je veux le plus au monde, Rin".
Il est sincère. Sa voix ne porte plus rien de l'imbécile colérique des Sparrows, et il s'assoit sur son lit, plus triste que jamais.
"Mais si notre but est de devancer la Purge, nous ne pourrons relancer Oblivion..."
Les mots peinent à lui venir, alors je tente de l'aider.
"Nous ne le pourrons que si tu retrouves tes pouvoirs ?"
Il laisse filer un souffle plus déchirant que tout le sarcasme que je lui ai connu, car il est chargé de détresse, et de peine.
"Retrouver mes pouvoirs ne suffira pas, tu le sais. Je devrai aussi... récupérer la part de moi qui se nichera de nouveau en elle. Comme lors de l'Incident".
Je me fige, tandis qu'il pose sa tête dans ses deux mains, ses coudes appuyés sur ses genoux. Son fantôme observe, car lui aussi a compris. Et Benjamin pose cette fois les mots les plus terribles qui soient :
"Nous ne réussirons que si je la tue, encore une fois".
Nous nous taisons tous les deux. Tous les trois. Réalisant pleinement ce que - j'en suis sûre - savent déjà Reginald et Max. Oui. Tout fait sens. Malheureusement.
"L'autre jour...", je bredouille. "Ton père m'a mise en garde. Il a dit que si je pensais trop à son sort, je n'aurais de cesse que de vouloir la sauver".
Je comprends, maintenant.
"Il craint que nous renoncions à Oblivion, pour ne pas la tuer".
Benjamin lutte pour trouver ses mots, dorénavant.
"Je ne le pourrai pas. Je ne le pourrai jamais, Rin : je l'ai déjà tuée une fois, en spectateur impuissant. Jamais je ne recommencerai, tu m'entends ?"
Benjamin est face à un choix impossible, et il me fend le coeur. Il essuie rageusement l'unique larme qui vient d'outrepasser ses murailles.
"Nous trouverons une solution", à lui dis-je autant qu'à Ben, à côté de lui.
"Laisse moi".
Il semble se vider de ses forces, il se recroqueville sur le lit, et je n'insiste pas. Alors je me lève, moi aussi chancelante, mais je lui murmure un dernier mot :
"En tout cas, s'il s'agit de la trouver dans cette timeline, je pense savoir où chercher".
---
16:34
"Nous ne souhaitons rien pour nous-mêmes. Seulement pour Gracie".
A la grande table du 'Salon des Enfants', j'essaye d'être présente au dessus de mon moka. Diego et Lila sont assis, avec dans leurs yeux la même ardeur. Face à eux, les doigts d'Allison sont posés mollement sur la anse d'une tasse orange, piochée dans la vaisselle seventies chinée par Klaus et Luther.
"Je comprends. Sincèrement", souffle-t-elle. "Même si c'est différent de ce qui entraîne Claire vers le fond".
Allison est remuée par la description détaillée qu'ils viennent de faire de la situation de Gracie, et qui ne le serait pas ? La gamine a une osthéoporose sévère, combinée à de l'arthrite, contenue bon gré mal gré par le sport qu'elle pratique dans leur école de self-defense. Des problèmes de foie, un seul rein fonctionnel, un système immunitaire faible, et un risque de problèmes cardio-vasculaires à faire pâlir les statistiques de Cinq. Elle contracte presque une pneumonie par an : l'an dernier, elle a failli y passer.
"Max a dit que nous pourrions les réimplémenter toutes les deux dans le reset, comme elles sont aujourd'hui", souffle Diego. "Qu'elles ne seraient plus affectées par ces putains de maladies de l'espace-temps".
Lila expire lentement. Cette phrase, c'est tout ce qu'elle avait un jour espéré entendre, mais elle demande avec une empathie touchante :
"Claire... Elle ne souffrirait plus de l'Effet Umbrella ?"
Tous les trois se tournent vers moi, comme si - pour avoir passé beaucoup de temps avec Max - je maîtrisais ces subtilités, alors j'essaye de focaliser mon esprit.
"Oui, c'est bien ça. Si Oblivion... avait pu élaguer les timelines pour ne garder que celle du reset, il n'y aurait pas eu d'Effet Umbrella. Si cette fois nous laissons la machine aller jusqu'au bout, il n'en naîtra qu'une timeline unique. Plus d'entrechoquements. Plus de souvenirs intrusifs pour Claire".
Je me suis attachée à cette ado, quoi que j'en dise, peut-être parce que Klaus et elle sont très liés. Allison relève des yeux humides, alors j'essaye de déployer toute la douceur punk dont je sois capable dans mes bottes de combat.
"Tu ne dois pas culpabiliser de la ramener, Allison. Elle a sa vie, ici et maintenant".
Allison en tremble d'espoir, mais je sais qu'un poids immense pèse sur sa conscience, depuis que Max nous a conseillé de choisir avec humilité. Depuis les accusation du Dopplegänger de Klaus, également, et depuis qu'il lui a dit qu'il avait renoncé à ramener Dave. Il est temps de crever l'abcès, alors je me penche légèrement en avant.
"Aucun de nous ne peut envisager son effacement".
Allison secoue la tête.
"Tu as entendu Max. Pourquoi elle, Rin, et pas toutes les versions alternatives des gens qui sont nés de nos conneries ?"
Allison a fait du chemin, du point de vue éthique. Presque trop. Je parlais de vertige, l'autre jour, en pensant à toutes les vies qui ont été affectées, créées ou arrêtées à cause de nous. Et ma raison - qui porte le nom de Max - m'a dit que je péterais les plombs si j'allais trop par là.
"Juste elle et Gracie, Allison. Deux petites lignes de code ajoutée au programme de l'univers. Réimplémentée comme elle sont aujourd'hui, rien de plus. Max pense en revanche... qu'il serait raisonnable de laisser Patrick et Ray en dehors de tout ça. Que Claire soit née de père inconnu".
Allison acquiesce. Depuis 2019, je me doutais qu'elle avait largement usé de Rumeurs dans sa relation avec Patrick. Qu'il ne l'aurait possiblement jamais aimé, sans ça, et que Claire ne serait jamais née. Il a eu la force de la quitter, en dépit du contrôle qu'elle exerçait sur lui. De la même façon, Ray avait conclu sa vie avec dignité et courage, avant qu'elle le ramène. En ceci, tous les deux devraient être respectés, et - comme Dave - être autorisés à avoir vécu, et achevé leur vie.
"Oui. Oui, je sais".
La gravité de ce qu'Allison a fait - en dépit de toute notion de consentement - elle en conscience à s'en rendre malade, aujourd'hui. Elle n'en dort plus, ces derniers jours, elle passe tout son temps avec Max aux Aiguillages, maintenant. Je compare son voyage personnel à tous les sevrages que j'ai vus, chez Klaus. Celui de ses désirs. Et je pense qu'est en train d'en sortir une meilleure personne.
"Je suis d'accord", souffle Lila. "Nous devrions laisser l'histoire de vie de qui que ce soit d'autre intouchée. Même de vos mères ou grand-mères que vous aviez cherché à retrouver. Même... de mes parents".
Lila a toujours été directe, et cette parole me touche en plein coeur, mais elle a raison. J'ai accompli ce deuil pour ma mère, maintenant. Pour Granny. Elle, a ramené ses défunts parents en copiant le pouvoir d'Allison. Elle vit au quotidien avec les conséquences de ceci, et leurs âmes perturbées pour avoir été arrachés à l'époque qui était la leur, se sur-imprimant à l'Effet Umbrella. Mais elle est lucide, et elle avoue :
"Je suis heureuse de les avoir ici. Mais j'ai bien conscience... qu'ils ne sont pas ceux que j'ai connus".
Ce qui traverse le 'Salon des Enfants', en cet instant, est profond et touchant. Nous sommes tous en train d'accepter de laisser derrière nous ce que nous avons connu, aimé, désiré. Et d'accepter de renaître en ne conservant d'eux que la force de notre mémoire.
"Nous allons encore tous progresser", je murmure en buvant une gorgée. "Approcher les autres versions de nous-même nous met face à un miroir qui nous fait grandir. On peut au moins remercier cet espace-temps merdique pour ça".
Allison en a fait l'expérience douloureuse mais bénéfique, pendant la 'ré-insémination' de Klaus. Bon sang, je m'étrangle d'être en train d'adopter sa plaisanterie.
"Je te jure", souffle Diego, "J'espère que ce salopard d'autre moi prend bien soin de Wanda".
*Crac !*
Je n'ai pas le temps de lui adresser un sourire désolé, pour avoir vu dans quel état se trouvait en cette heure son précieux van : même avant de se faire percuter, Wanda tombait déjà littéralement en miettes. Mais Max vient d'apparaître dans un déchirement bleuté du réel, et il file en direction de la machine à café tout en désignant Diego et Lila.
"Vous êtes prêts pour votre petit tour de rollercoaster ? Nous avons dix minutes, avant que la fenêtre de translation soit optimale, pour vous deux à la fois".
Il prend la cafetière, et se baisse pour inspirer une très longue bouffée de vapeur torréfiée.
"J'étais sûr que vous seriez les volontaires suivants".
C'était une évidence pour tous, oui. Max ne connaît pas encore Gracie, mais il est clairement touché par le simple fait qu'elle existe. Après tout, elle est sa nièce, à lui aussi.
"Plus volontaires que jamais".
Diego se lève, tout comme Lila. Je quitte ma chaise, moi aussi, levant un instant les yeux vers le plafond, au travers duquel je peux toujours sentir l'énergie spectrale converger. Max tire un mug du placard, le remplit généreusement, puis le descend, pratiquement cul-sec.
"Parés au décollage", dit-il en empoignant Lila sous le bras, tandis que je fais de même avec Diego.
Et tout en s'ébrouant comme s'il était revigoré, il ajoute avant que nous disparaissions vers le Métro :
"Nom de Zeus, enfin un café décent".
---
17:16, le Métro des timelines
"Je n'arrive pas à y croire".
Juste en bas des escaliers ternes descendant dans la Station de la Purge, Diego vient de s'écrouler assis, le dos contre l'un des piliers. Non pas parce que le retour de ses Marigolds se fait déjà sentir : c'est trop tôt pour ça, même s'ils s'agrippent déjà à ses racines nerveuses et ses arcs réflexes. Non. Parce qu'il est en état de choc. Et c'est un faible mot.
"Je n'arrive à croire que tu ne m'aies rien dit, Lila".
A la suite de cette dernière, je descends moi aussi sur le quai. Les bras croisés, le souffle court. Analysant comment nous en sommes arrivés là.
Max a choisi de nous envoyer procéder au transfert de leurs Aethers sur la route glacée du retour de New Grumpson, dans une atmosphère de chaos. Les versions alternatives d'eux-mêmes étaient assis à l'avant de Wanda, côte à côte. Et tous ses calculs indiquaient qu'ensuite, il serait très compliqué de trouver un moment aussi opportun.
Diego a tenté de contenir sa colère contre lui-même, quand il a vu dans quel état était son van adoré. Et lorsque je nous ai téléportés à l'intérieur - pendant une pause pipi sur une aire d'autoroute - j'ai senti toute son énergie se lamenter au sujet de ce qu'il était lui-même devenu, à l'image de son véhicule. Il a dit qu'il avait l'air 'd'un narco-trafiquant en année sabbatique'. Et ni Lila ni moi n'avons vraiment démenti.
Nous nous sommes cachés juste derrière les sièges de leurs alter-egos : Lila et Diego dans leur dos, et moi au milieu. Invisibles et intangibles, aux pieds de Cinq et de Viktor endormis. Le transfert des Marigolds n'a pas été difficile, en soi, même s'il m'a demandé de la concentration et de l'endurance : pour Diego, puis pour Lila. Viktor ne s'est pas réveillé, ce qui a été un soulagement.
En revanche, la conversation que Diego et Lila ont entendue a bien manqué de tout faire échouer.
Lila croise les bras.
"De quoi tu parles, des horribles uggs de contrefaçon que mon autre moi portait ?"
Elle s'assoit elle aussi, tenant son estomac qui se rebelle déjà, et Diego fait rouler sa tête contre le pilier, agacé et triste.
"Oh, s'il de plaît. Tu as vu et entendu la même chose que moi : tu es allée infiltrer les Gardiens sans moi".
Je cligne des yeux, restant en retrait.
"Tu as décidé que ta vie avec moi était misérable et monotone. Que tu avais besoin d'aller prendre 'du temps pour toi'".
"Ce n'était pas moi, Diego".
"Non. Mais ça veut dire que tu en aurais été capable. A un certain point en tout cas".
Merde. C'est bien ce que je craignais. Diego - à son tour - est en train de faire des amalgames dangereux. Lila ouvre sa veste, essayant de respirer pour contrer la nausée.
"Et alors ? Tu vas me juger ici et maintenant pour une potentialité qui - finalement - n'a pas eu lieu ?"
Les yeux de Diego sont ardents et tristes à la fois.
"Ce n'est pas exactement ce que vous faisiez à la Commission ? Tuer des gens pour ça ? Et je ne sais pas. Peut-être que nos foutus Dopplegängers en disent long sur ce qu'on a au fond de nous".
Je ne m'étais pas attendue à ça. Pas après avoir été témoin de leur vie ici, et les avoir entendu faire corps pour sauver Gracie. Je réalise que je n'ai vu que la surface des choses, qu'un couple est certainement toujours bien plus que ce qu'on veut montrer.
"Diego..."
Je me risque à glisser un mot, avec prudence. Je m'en veux d'avoir dit que d'être mis face à d'autres trajectoires de nous-mêmes nous faisait avancer. Parfois, au contraire, c'est aussi un miroir déformant : j'en ai aussi fait les frais il y a peu.
"Tu ne m'as jamais mis dans le même panier que Christopher..."
"C'était un putain de cube ! Et je lui ai mis une raclée".
Lila roule des yeux.
"C'était plutôt l'inverse. Il t'a littéralement électrifié le cul".
"On s'en fout. Il a divergé de Rin il y a trente ans, toi et cette Lila littéralement hier".
Son avis est que ce n'est pas comparable, et il balaye mon intervention, d'un revers de la main.
"Tu l'as vu, ce Diego ? Voilà aussi ce que je suis, au fond, Lila : cet éternel imbécile dévoué à notre relation, alors que toi, tu as toujours cette soif de chaos, d'aventure et d'intrigues spatio-temporelles, au fond de toi, ne nie pas".
Un silence passe.
"Tu es toujours la fille insolente à chaussures rouges de la Commission. Celle qui jouait au chat et à la souris avec Cinq. Moi je ne suis jamais arrivé à la cheville de ses chaussettes hautes, pour te donner ce frisson-là".
Oh, voilà donc où est le coeur du problème. Diego, par-delà sa nature de forte-tête fonçant dans le tas, possède des insécurités aussi cognées qu'un ring de lucha-libre. Lila pince son nez entre ses yeux. Et elle finit par lâcher :
"J'aimerais surtout que tu arrêtes de dire des conneries".
Je n'interviendrai pas une seconde fois. Cette conversation n'est pas la mienne, alors je vais m'asseoir sur l'un des bancs, sous la carte lumineuse des nombreuses ramifications du réseau de nos vies. Un train passe, fracassant. Mais nous n'y montons pas.
"Qu'est-ce que tu as, avec ces doutes à la con ?", demande-t-elle avec tout le mordant dont elle est capable. "En t'écoutant, on a l'impression qu'on a rien vécu du tout ici, tous les deux".
Elle souffle de colère.
"Moi j'ai construit avec toi cette vie et ce dojo, littéralement. Dans chaque putain de détail, même lorsque les fins de mois étaient des traversées du désert. La Vigilante : on l'a faite grandir ensemble. On a tenu bon au sujet de Gracie. Et à chaque fois que j'ai eu la pulsion de m'enfuir et de laisser tomber, elle s'est éteinte toute seule, parce que je te regardais toi".
Diego ne dit rien, il regarde le sol crasseux de la station.
"Tu sais pourquoi tu attaches du crédit à cette timeline merdique, pour sonder ce qu'on est au fond de nous ?"
Elle tremble.
"Parce qu'elle va dans le sens de tes peurs, et de ta conviction débile que je finirai par trouver plus excitant que toi, et te quitter".
Sans un chuintement, je me rends invisible et intangible, et ni l'un ni l'autre ne le remarque. Je me sens de trop, au milieu de cette dispute à coeur ouvert. Diego passe une main sur ses yeux. Il a déjà des sueurs froides à cause du déploiement de ses Marigolds en son être, lui aussi, mais ce qui le met au tapis : c'est la vérité factuelle que Lila vient de poser.
"Avant toi, personne n'a vraiment voulu de moi sans me jeter. Eudora, elle..."
Ce nom, je l'entends prononcé par lui pour la première fois. Patch. La lieutenant, qui avait concrètement été son seul 'amour' sérieux, avant Lila. Je sais qu'elle reste une blessure indélébile, même si tout était déjà fini entre eux, lorsque Chacha l'a tuée, en 2019.
"...elle disait que j'étais toujours trop. Ou pas assez".
Diego me fend le coeur. Je comprends, en cet instant, pourquoi Klaus et lui ont toujours été proches, en dépit de leur dysfonctionnalité ordinaire. En ce sens, ils se ressemblent : ils ont toujours été en recherche d'une forme de validation, avec la conviction profonde qu'ils seraient toujours rejetés, à la fin. Persuadés, au fond d'eux, de ne pas valoir la peine, ce pourquoi Reginald est une nouvelle fois à blâmer.
"Je sais", pose Lila avec un ton qui annonce un sarcasme imminent. "Et ta mère était la seule qui t'acceptait tel que tu étais, parce qu'elle était programmée pour ça. J'en ai plein le cul, Diego. Oui, tu es PLEIN de défauts, comme nous tous. Et JUSTEMENT, je n'en changerais pas un".
Sans doute en partie à cause de la compétition entretenue entre lui et Luther, Diego a toujours été en recherche d'une forme de perfection. Le poussant toujours plus à briller par ses actions, le poussant souvent à en faire trop, comme lors de son édifiante lubie pour JFK. Il n'est qu'humain, comme nous tous. Et ce complexe du super-héro ne fait que cacher son immense et bégayante fragilité : un mur qui se trouve pulvérisée en ce jour comme une paroi de verre.
"Okay. Je suis le chaos", souffle Lila. "Okay, je suis imprévisible. Tu devrais être encore plus fier que la version de toi qui est ici soit un type assez formidable pour que je sois encore là".
Il pleure, à présent. Parce qu'elle a raison. Et toute l'énergie de la station vibre. La première trajectoire que Diego est en train de courber avec ses pouvoirs revenus, est bel et bien celle de sa confiance en lui et en Lila, qui rampe plus ou moins à côté de lui.
"T'es vraiment trop con", dit-elle en le tirant un peu brusquement contre son épaule, et il laisse filer un sourire maladroit au milieu du sel de ses larmes.
"Oui. Je suis vraiment tout sauf un putain de loup solitaire, en réalité".
Il est même tout le contraire, même s'il l'a très longtemps nié, et il a besoin d'elle, avant tout. Au moins, leur improbable rencontre avec 'eux-mêmes', aujourd'hui, leur aura permis de réaffirmer ça, même si leur équilibre a un instant vacillé.
Peu à peu, leur colère retombe au simple crépitement de leurs Marigolds en réinstallation, et je me rends de nouveau visible et tangible, comme si je m'autorisais de nouveau à respirer. Un nouveau Métro entre en station, dans le fracas de sa mécanique. Les freins crissent, les murs tremblent, et les portes s'ouvrent tandis que les hauts parleurs crachent leur annonce à l'envers.
"Pourquoi vous êtes en train de lambiner ?"
Le nez en l'air, les paumes ouvertes, Max sort de la rame, nous scannant comme il le faisait jusque là depuis ses caméras. Pour qu'il ait quitté la Salle des Aiguillages, c'est qu'il a senti que quelque chose d'anormal se passait.
"Toi", lui dit Diego en se relevant, tâchant de reprendre sa composition, en époussetant ses vêtements.
Il est tendu, il se dresse rigidement de toute sa hauteur, cherchant à culminer plus haut que lui. Un instant, je crains que Diego ne reproche aussi à Max ce que son alter-ego a fait dans la timeline de la Purge. L'air crépite presque. Et pourtant il s’apaise. Oui. Diego a finalement bien compris que Max n'était pas ce Cinq non plus.
"On a réussi, mec", lui dit-il comme un ballon qui se dégonflerait. "Bientôt, tu seras très satisfait de nous voir gerber tripes et boyaux".
Max ne s'esclaffe pas, mais il sourit largement, aidant Lila à se relever à son tour avant de fouiller dans sa poche.
"Vous avez été parfaits. Même face à vous-mêmes. Si vous saviez combien pètent les plombs".
Ça, je veux bien le croire. Je suis aussi fatiguée par les engueulades de cette journée que dans les années 2000, quand j'entendais les voisins de l'immeuble d'en face s'envoyer leur vaisselle à la tronche, toute la nuit, en jurant en Mandarin. Diego et Lila sont plus forts que jamais, à présent. Et Max - qui a bel et bien tout écouté de loin - se plante face à eux.
"Je me suis dit..."
Il a un air de mystère que j'aime bien.
"... que c'était le bon moment pour vous donner ces bricoles, que j'ai ramassées dans l'une ou l'autre des apocalypses désertes, où j'ai zoné".
"Des bricoles ?"
"Ceci a été à toi, à vous, dans un nombre de timelines qui se compte en dizaines de milliers. J'en trouve régulièrement, à l'endroit où d'autres versions de vous ont fini leur course ensemble. Ces deux-là sont dans le meilleur état que j'ai pu trouver".
D'un geste, il tire de sa poche deux bracelets, faits de perles grossières. Comme celui que Lila et Diego s'étaient échangé, après leur rencontre dans les années 60, à titre de promesse. Dans le reset, cet objet avait disparu. Mais ainsi, Max l'a retrouvé, sans cesse, dans toutes les fins du monde où Diego et Lila se sont aimés, jusqu'au bout. Et Max ajoute :
"La Purge est un détail, une anomalie statistique, vraiment".
Avec une émotion certaine, Diego passe le bracelet à son solide poignet, tandis que le visage de Lila se fend d'un immense sourire en ajustant le sien.
"T'es un bon frangin, Cinq".
"Max. Pour la dernière fois, mon nom est Max, maintenant".
Tous les deux s'étreignent un instant. Sans s'avouer plus que ça à quel point ils tiennent l'un à l'autre, ce qui est pourtant vrai. Et enfin, ses yeux posés sur les perles, un sourire heureux malgré ses suées, Lila murmure :
"J'ai toujours tenu à ce bracelet comme à ma vie".
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
The agriculture classroom was empty, the last of the sunlight slanting through grimy windows. Dust hung in the air, caught by the orange glow. Frodo slouched in the back row, half-asleep, bag still unzipped, pen idle on the desk.
The sharp click of the door lock snapped him upright.
Sam turned the key with deliberate slowness, then set it on the front desk. He didn’t speak at first. He just looked at Frodo with a calm, cutting stare, the kind that didn’t allow argument.
“You thought this would be easy,” Sam said at last, voice low and flat. “A throwaway credit. A class beneath you. You thought wrong.”
Frodo swallowed. “It’s just… agriculture. I don’t need—”
“Up. Front.” Sam’s command landed like a slap.
When Frodo didn’t move quickly enough, Sam’s palm cracked against the desk, startling him forward. The sound echoed in the empty room.
“Over the desk. Now.”
Frodo hesitated, defiance twitching in his jaw, but Sam was already walking forward, pulling the long wooden pointer from where it rested against the chalkboard. He tapped it once against his palm. The sound was sharp, dry, merciless.
“You’ll learn obedience, one way or another.”
Frodo braced himself against the front desk. The wood was cool under his cheek.
The first strike landed across his thighs. Not tentative — decisive. Frodo gasped, jerking up, but Sam’s hand was already pressing between his shoulders, holding him flat.
“Count,” Sam said coldly.
“I—what?”
The pointer struck again, harder. Frodo’s cry caught in his throat.
“Two. Say it.”
“…Two.”
Sam’s strikes came in steady rhythm. Each blow punctuated by a lesson: “You will not slouch. You will not waste my time. You will not treat this lightly.”
By the fifth, Frodo’s voice cracked on the numbers. By the eighth, his fingers were clutching the desk so tight his knuckles whitened.
When he tried to twist away, Sam seized a coil of twine from the lab counter and bound his wrists to the desk rail in three quick loops. Agricultural rope, practical and unyielding.
“You don’t get to choose when this ends.”
Frodo tugged uselessly against the ties. His breath was sharp, angry, panicked. But beneath it, something else stirred — something he didn’t want to admit.
Sam noticed. Of course he did. His voice was quiet, but merciless: “Your body betrays you.”
He set the pointer aside and retrieved something thicker — the handle of a soil probe, polished wood, heavy, far too big to be comfortable. He let Frodo hear it scrape across the desk as he placed it down in front of him.
“You came here expecting nothing of value. You’ll leave knowing your limits.”
Frodo twisted his head to look, eyes widening. “You can’t—”
“I can. And you’ll take it.”
Sam lifted the probe, testing the weight in his hand. His tone stayed clinical, detached, almost like he was demonstrating equipment. “Big. Unforgiving. You’ll learn to open, or you’ll break trying.”
Frodo’s protest faltered into silence. His bound wrists trembled.
Sam leaned down close, voice a whisper against his ear, cold and cutting: “This is lesson one. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll beg for the next assignment.”
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
Was the sound last night the wind?
Can you feel the change begin?
By the fall of the snow
A single soul will go
The footsteps on the white
There’s an unholy light
There’s a hole in the sky
Something evil’s passing by
What’s to come – when the siren calls you go
To run with the wolf…
Saturday 13
th
January 1979
First Moon
“I hate this,” Sirius said, sucking hard on his third cigarette.
“I know you do.” Remus sighed, sounding exhausted. They had both slept poorly the previous night—Remus had been grinding his teeth again, and Sirius hadn’t been able to stop tossing and turning, mind spinning with everything that might happen on this mission. All the ways it could go wrong.
“I mean, I
really
hate this.” Sirius exhaled, standing on his tiptoes to blow the smoke out the top of the window. It was too cold outside to open it all the way, and Sirius shivered when the freezing air brushed against his face, wrapping the arm that wasn’t holding his cigarette around his waist.
Behind him, Remus was spread across the sofa with a cold flannel on his forehead—he’d been complaining about a headache, which wasn’t unusual so close to the moon.
“It’s bloody mental, sending you on your own.” Sirius scowled, staring out the window. “Why can’t I go with you? I could go as Padfoot.”
“No,” Remus said (for the millionth time), “You still smell human. They’d tear you apart.”
“What if they tear
you
apart?” Sirius shot back, turning around. He was trying not to make a fuss—really, he was. But he couldn’t stop the fear that crept into his voice.
“Me?” Remus waved a hand, dismissively, “Greyback’s prodigal son? Not likely.”
“What’s a prodigal son?”
“Oh right, er…just means I’m going to get a warm welcome. Gaius said not to hurt me. Livia called me her brother.”
Gaius
—that was the werewolf from the mission in July, the one who’d attacked him. And Livia…
“Could I come with you for a bit? Just before anyone else shows up?”
Remus looked at him, with something like pity in his eyes. “It’s not safe, Padfoot.”
Sirius turned away, stubbing out his cigarette with a bit more force than necessary on the windowsill. He didn’t want pity—he wanted Remus to say he could go. He wanted Remus not to go at all.
“Why don’t you go to the Potters’?” Moony said, carefully, “Don’t spend the night here by yourself.”
“I don’t care where I spend the night.” Sirius huffed, flopping down into the armchair.
“Well, I do,” Remus frowned, reproachfully, “I need to know where to go after the moon’s down.”
“Shit, yeah,” Sirius straightened, feeling a kick of guilt—once again, he’d only been thinking about himself, about his own stupid emotions. “Ok, I’ll go to the Potters – then if you need any patching up Euphemia will be on hand. Fuck, what if you can’t apparate? What if you—”
“I’ll send a patronus.”
“But if you’re not strong enough…”
“I will be.”
They regarded each other, for a moment; Remus with the same calm, steady gaze he’d been levelling at Sirius all day, every time he began to panic or started asking questions—how would Remus even know he was in the right spot, how many wolves would be there, how would he know they were the
right
wolves…
From their neighbours’ flat, there was a soft, familiar chiming. They had never properly introduced themselves – only waved, politely, when they passed each other in the halls – but the elderly couple next door had a grandfather clock that went off every hour and could be heard, clearly, through the walls. Now, Sirius and Remus listened as it struck four.
Remus pushed himself up, stretching, and tossed the flannel into a corner.
“I’d better get going.”
No
– Sirius stared at him, helplessly.
Not yet.
Remus shook his head fondly, moving over to the armchair. He brushed a few strands of hair away from Sirius’s face, then leaned down to kiss his forehead.
“Go to the Potters’. I’ll be fine. Honestly, you go on missions all the time.”
“Not like this!” Sirius protested, “Defensive stuff, guard duty, carrying messages, not…”
Remus shrugged. “Someone has to do it,” he said, simply, “I’d rather it was me.”
Sirius watched him move over to the door, crouching down to tie his shoes. He wished he didn’t feel so…helpless, wished that there was something – anything – that he could do besides watch Remus leave. He trailed behind him, hovering in the doorway that led to the kitchen.
Once Moony had finished tying his shoes he stood, and they hugged. Sirius twisted his fingers into the other boy’s shirt, gripping as tightly as he could, not wanting to ever let go.
“I love you,” he said, pressing his face into Moony’s shoulder. It was the first time either of them had said it since Hope’s funeral, and Sirius wasn’t sure if—
“I love you too.”
Remus twisted slightly, just enough to press a kiss against his temple. “I’ll see you so soon, I promise.”
And then he turned, and the door slammed behind him, and Sirius was left standing in their flat, alone.
* * *
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything else, love?” Mrs. Potter asked, handing him a cup of tea. Sirius smiled up at her, weakly.
“No, sorry. Just…not very hungry.”
She smiled sympathetically, patting his cheek.
“Well, if you change your mind, just give Gully a ring. I’m off to bed…not getting any younger, I’m afraid; nowadays it seems I’m knackered the moment the sun has set!”
“Good night,” Sirius said, sipping his tea. She leaned down to kiss his forehead before leaving the kitchen, humming under her breath as she headed upstairs.
Sirius sighed, slumping in his seat. He’d forgotten that James was taking Lily out to dinner this evening, and Fleamont was locked away in his office as usual, so it had been only Euphemia for company once he’d arrived at the Potters’. Sirius loved Effie like she was his own mother (actually, he loved her quite a bit more than he loved his own mother), but neither she nor Mr. Potter were as spry as they used to be, and though she made for very pleasant company, she was not exactly the ideal person to distract Sirius from his current dark thoughts. He had mostly just helped her with the washing up while she finished baking a treacle tart for a neighbour.
Sirius stood, still nursing his cup of tea, and moved over to the window. The sky was clear outside, stars winking down from their lofty perch. The moon was bloated; swollen; pale and taunting. Sirius stared up at it, wondering where Moony was—if he was safe, if he was hurt, if he was surrounded by other wolves. He had seemed so certain that they wouldn’t hurt him, but Sirius wasn’t as sure. He lifted a hand, absentmindedly, to his chest, tracing over his ribcage…
“Padfoot!” James smiled, walking into the kitchen from the living room entrance and brushing soot off his shirt. He must’ve come through the floo. “I didn’t know you were coming over—you should’ve called me on the mirror!”
Sirius shrugged. “Your mum told me you were out with Lily. Didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Right.” James caught sight of the expression on his face, glancing out the window at the moon. “Are you…staying here tonight, then?”
“Yeah,” Sirius turned his back on the window, nodding, “Figured it would be best. For Moony. In the morning. Y’know, if he’s—hurt, or anything…I’m sort of rubbish at healing spells, I thought your mum would be better…”
“Of course!” James nodded, earnestly, “Sorry, should have thought of that. Where
is
mum? Am I allowed to eat that?” He pointed at the tart.
Sirius smiled, grudgingly. “
No
– I’m under strict orders to keep you away from it. And she went up to bed, said she was tired.”
“Oh.” James’s smile tightened, marginally. “Right.”
Sirius watched him, studying his face. His parents were still in good health, all things considered, but Sirius could tell that James was feeling the effects of their aging just as much as his mum and dad were. Fleamont and Euphemia had always been on the older side of the spectrum, as far as parents went—James once told Sirius that his mum used to call him her
‘happy surprise’
; apparently, they hadn’t thought that they’d be able to have children. But their youthful vigour had always made them seem younger, and it had been a bit of a shock when Sirius realised that Euphemia would be turning sixty-two that year – and Fleamont was three years older.
Still, going to bed a bit earlier didn’t mean anything dire. Sirius had plenty of great aunts and uncles that had lived well into their nineties, and he was pretty sure that Dumbledore was nearly a hundred – their headmaster was certainly still lively enough. Sirius was sure that Mr. and Mrs. Potter would be around for a long time yet; they were just so
steady
, a permanent fixture of the boys’ lives. Sirius couldn’t imagine James without them.
“How’s Mrs. Prongs?” He asked, finishing the last of his tea. James relaxed again, eyes going dreamy the way they always did when he talked about Lily.
“Good,” he sighed, “She likes her job in the potions research department. Eats lunch with Marlene every day, on their break—I’m trying to convince McKinnon to bring Danny over sometime, play some quidditch.”
“Mm.” Sirius moved to the sink and began washing out his mug. “That would be fun.”
“Yeah…Petunia’s still a bitch, no changes there. Hasn’t invited Lily over to see the new house, even though it’s been months.”
Lily’s sister had moved out after the wedding to live with her new husband, and apparently she only ever invited the family over to visit when her younger sister just so happened to be busy. Sirius snorted, shaking his head. James went on,
“Moody’s asked her to brew veritaserum for the Order, so she’s been working on that in her free time, and she’s been talking about taking a muggle typing course…”
“What?” Sirius wrinkled his nose, “Like the one Mary’s done?”
James nodded.
“Why?”
“Well…” James scratched the back of his head, awkwardly, “She says just in case…y’know, if the death eaters get more of a foothold in the Ministry…Malfoy’s proposed that new reform, to have muggleborn wizards register with the Ministry, and Mary and Lily think if it goes through then the hiring discrimination’ll just get even worse…”
“What?” Sirius frowned—he usually zoned out at the political part of Order meetings, not paying close attention to the discussion of policies and reforms. It wasn’t like any of it involved him; he didn’t work for the Ministry. “She thinks she won’t be able to find a wizarding job?”
“Well, once her apprenticeship ends she’ll have to apply if she wants to work full time at St. Mungo’s, or if she wants to do potions research somewhere else. And apparently it’s a lot harder, y’know, if you aren’t a pureblood…she was telling me about the statistics; I never knew.”
Sirius frowned, considering this. “Me either…” he muttered, drying his mug and putting it away. He turned. “But she won’t have to worry about that, will she? Once we win, people like the Malfoys will all be locked away.”
“We don’t know
for sure
that the Malfoys are death eaters…”
“They are.” Sirius said, firmly. “Trust me. They were always there, at the meetings.”
“Yeah, but…” James sighed, switching tracks. “I mean, even aside from…the war, and everything…this isn’t anything new. Lily was telling me—it all goes back, way before You-know-who. It used to be nearly impossible for muggleborn wizards to find jobs, it’s only recently that things have started to get a bit better. I mean, at least before…” he waved a hand, aimlessly. Sirius didn’t need to ask what he meant.
At least before Voldemort. At least before the war.
They were quiet, for a moment. Then Sirius frowned, stubbornly, and said,
“Evans is brilliant. She’ll be able to find a job—she doesn’t need some silly muggle typing course.”
James laughed. “Well, there’s no need to get up in arms about it! She just mentioned it—and I don’t really think she’s all too keen on the idea, anyway.”
“Things’ll be different,” Sirius insisted, not entirely sure why it felt so important to him, “When we win the war.”
James smiled at him, bemused, and reached out to clap a hand down on his shoulder.
“I know, Pads,” he agreed, “Things’ll be different.”
* * *
Sunday 14
th
January 1979
Sirius didn’t sleep. He lay awake, in the overlarge bed, staring up at the ceiling until his eyes ached. There was too much empty space on the mattress—he wasn’t used to sleeping alone.
He’d drawn the curtains over the windows, sick with the sight of the moon, so he had no idea how much time had passed. But it must’ve been dawn, because suddenly a voice startled him out of the hazy half-consciousness through which he’d been floating.
“Are you awake?”
“Moony!” Sirius sat bolt upright, squinting through the dark towards the door.
Remus crossed the room quickly, in three long strides, and then stopped short at the end of the bed, hovering.
“Are you ok?!” Sirius asked, scanning for injuries.
“Yes,” Remus assured him, quickly, “It was fine, it was nothing. We just hunted.”
“Hunted?!”
“Rabbits.” Remus added, licking his lips. He smelled different than usual—less sweetness, less warmth; more wild and green. “Honestly, it was fine. Easy.”
“I was so worried about you, I didn’t even sleep…” Sirius trailed off, as Remus continued to hover by the edge of the bed. “Don’t you want to get in?” He pulled back the blankets, confused. Moony was always exhausted after the transformation.
“Er…” Remus fidgeted, glancing down. “I’m a bit…on edge.”
Sirius blinked sleepily, trying to figure out what that meant. Sensing his confusion, Remus prompted,
“You know. Like the other day?”
“Oh!” Sirius thought of the swollen magic, buzzing in his veins. He reached out to skim his fingers along Remus’s arm—sure enough, there was an instant lick of heat down his spine, the same tingly, electric feeling.
“So you are.” Sirius licked his lips, the combination of magic and lack of sleep making him feel dizzy and drunk. “Um…”
He reached for Remus’s hips—warm skin, sharp hipbones, and even more of the delicious, crackling magic. Sirius curled his fingers into the waistband of Moony’s jeans, pulling him closer, wanting to feel him…
“That’s ok, I can sleep later…”
They did sleep, eventually, once they were both boneless and sweaty and panting. Sirius curled up in Moony’s arms and didn’t wake until five o’clock in the evening, feeling more well-rested than he had in ages.
Remus told him about the moon, when they woke up. They sat cross-legged on the mattress, and he talked about running with the pack, hunting rabbits and howling into the sky. Afterwards, he said, he’d spoken with Gaius and Livia. They’d told him that Greyback wanted to meet him. He just needed to spend two more moons with the pack.
Sirius hugged him, tightly, and stroked his hair, and wished desperately that he could ask him not to go back.
* * *
Sunday 11
th
February 1979
Second Moon
Everything was perfectly fine.
Over the next month, things went back to normal. They slept tangled in each other’s arms, and ate breakfast together (when they remembered to buy groceries), and visited their friends. Sirius had his order missions and his bike, and Remus had the phone (which he used almost exclusively to call Grant) and his books, and everything was fine. Everything was good.
Except that they were still sleeping poorly, waking each other in the night with their tossing and turning. Except the full moon drew closer, steadily, and both Moody and Ferox had agreed that Remus should spend it once more with the werewolves. Except that Sirius would look over at Remus, sometimes, and find that he was far away—gazing out the window at night, staring up at the sky. Sometimes, he almost looked wistful. Eager.
Sirius tried to ignore it. Tried to shake off the cold sliver of unease that burrowed into his spine. Remus didn’t like this mission any more than he did—he was only doing it because Moody had asked him to, and there was nobody else, and they had all agreed that they would do anything to help the Order win. It was all for the greater good; really, it was bloody noble of Moony, risking his life for them. Sirius should have felt proud of him, for his bravery, his determination.
Instead, he just felt sick.
He tried not to show it as he kissed Remus goodbye—it wasn’t like it would do either of them any good. Moony pulled him in for a hug, and Sirius clutched him so fiercely that his knuckles went white.
“I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Remus left; the door shut behind him. Sirius was alone.
James and Lily were waiting for him at the Potters’ this time, ushering him into the dining room for one of Euphemia’s home-cooked meals. They chattered about their days, focusing only on the most mundane details—Lily’s supervisor had taken to wearing yellow robes, which quite decidedly did not suit her. Peter had invited James to a Puddlemere match after winning tickets in a lottery at work. The weather would be getting warmer soon, and they needed to decide what to plant in the Potters’ front garden this year.
Sirius slept fitfully in his old bedroom, tossing and turning in the large, empty bed. He woke at dawn and went downstairs, waiting by the back door for Remus to return, staring out the window at the rising sun.
He didn’t come back.
When Mrs. Potter came down, an hour later, she startled, flicking on the lights.
“Goodness—Sirius!” She chuckled, breathlessly. “You gave me quite a fright!”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, “Just waiting for Remus…”
“Oh, yes, of course dear.” She began to bustle around the kitchen, and Gully appeared at her side, helping prepare breakfast. “I’m sure he’s on his way—probably just didn’t have the energy to apparate, poor love.”
“D’you think we should go and find him?” Sirius started to stand, but Euphemia gestured for him to sit down.
“Give him a bit of time, dear. Here, help me set the table.”
By the time breakfast was served, however, Sirius wasn’t the only one that was anxious—James and Lily kept glancing at the clock, and even Mrs. Potter’s cheerful optimism had begun to crack. She hovered by the window, peering out every few seconds.
Sirius was beginning to feel properly panicky, ready to jump up and insist they go look for him, when Remus finally turned up. Mrs. Potter leapt to her feet and yanked the door open, exclaiming,
“There you are!”
Remus stumbled inside, eyes a bit glazed. “Sorry.”
“Oh my god, Moony, are you ok?!” Lily rushed over, staring in horror at his face and neck—he was covered in dried blood, a deep brownish-red. For a moment, Sirius’s heart leapt into his throat—but then he inhaled deeply, sniffing, and realised that it wasn’t human. That it wasn’t
his
.
“Shit,” Remus glanced down, as if just now noticing that the blood was there, “It’s not mine, it’s not—”
James came to stand beside Lily, staring wide-eyed at the mess. Remus stared back at them, helplessly, steadying himself against the wall.
“Come on, Moony,” Sirius brushed past their friends, taking Remus’s hand gently, “Let’s get you cleaned up…”
Remus followed him, obediently, up to the bathroom, where he waited as Sirius ran a bath. Once the tub was full, he stepped aside and waited while Moony stripped, leaving his filthy clothes in a pile on the floor before sinking into the warm water. It turned red, slowly, as the blood washed away.
“It’s not human,” Remus murmured, staring down at the water.
“I know,” Sirius told him, “It’s deer, I can smell it.”
They never hunted deer, on the moons. Not with Prongs. But of course, Sirius didn’t say that.
“You can?” Remus blinked up at him, surprised. Sirius nodded.
“I have to concentrate, but yeah. I was talking to Prongs about it, the longer we’re animagi the more weird things we notice. Hope I don’t go colour blind next, eh?”
Remus tried to laugh, but it came out shaky and stilted. Sirius watched him. He still had that glazed look in his eye.
“Was it bad?” Sirius asked, softly, after a moment.
Remus stared down at the water, a series of inscrutable emotions flickering across his face. And then he looked back up at Sirius, helplessly.
“Yeah,” he nodded, “It was bad.”
* * *
Tuesday 13
th
March 1979
Third Moon
“I don’t want to go back to the Potters’ this time.” Remus said, minutes before he was due to leave for his final moon with the werewolves.
“What?” Sirius asked, not sure that he’d heard correctly. He left the kitchen, where he’d been washing up the dishes, still wearing the bright yellow marigolds that Remus had bought him (he was pretty sure that it was supposed to be a joke, but they were actually quite useful). Suds dripped from the gloves onto the carpet as he stood in the living room, staring.
“I said I don’t want to go back to the Potters’.” Remus repeated, “In the morning. You can stay there, obviously, but I…I just won’t, ok? I don’t know how safe it is, I don’t want anyone to follow me.”
Where was this coming from
? Sirius continued to stare at him, utterly baffled.
“We’ve been fine so far…”
“I think we’ve been careless.” Remus countered, “I won’t put them in danger again.”
“Ok.” Sirius nodded, carefully, peeling off his gloves. “Where do you want to go, then?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe Cornwall? That castle ruin we visited, do you remember?”
“Of course I remember. Shall I meet you there?”
“Wait for my signal. I want it to be safe.” Remus fidgeted, glancing around the room. Sirius frowned.
“Moony, if it’s not safe then I’d
rather
be there so I can help. I know Prongs and Wormtail and Evans will too—”
“No.” Remus snapped, voice rising slightly. “No, please.”
“But Moony—”
“Look, I have to go.” Remus brushed past him, shoving out the door before Sirius could say another word. Sirius followed after him, rushing out onto the landing—but Remus was already gone.
* * *
Sirius arrived in Cornwall just before dawn. He sat on the crumbling castle wall, staring out towards the sea, watching the sun rise.
He waited.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
|
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt.
CHAPTER:
Chapter Text
As Odysseus and the rest of the kids walked into the surprisingly quickly raised camp, a fair few of the hunters approached Odysseus excitedly.
“Your majesty! You’re alive! Mother had told me you were immortal, I didn't believe her but she was right!” One of the girls smiled brightly as she hugged him, shocking his kids and some of the other hunters. The head hunter Zoe looked as if she had smelled something disgusting. “We were so worried when you disappeared!”
Odysseus looked closely at the girl and smiled, “Agnes! It’s so good to see you, dear child.” As he pulled her back in for a hug, the other three quickly approached joining the hug, “Daphne, Acacia, Elena. I’m glad to see you all!” Though he was thousands of years old, he still remembered the ones who loyally served him and his family. When Circe mentioned his own subjects had killed Telemachus after his disappearance, he’d worried for the innocents that lived and worked in his palace. The four of them 0were serving girls back then, they looked just a little bit older than they had when he’d left. Their mothers had been Penelope’s ladies in waiting, the only ones who didn't side with the suitors or tried to get in good with them. They had stayed in Penelope’s room with her to help protect her, though she didn't really need it.
“Hunters! What is the meaning of this!?” Zoe demanded. “You know our rules! You are to touch no man. And to do so in front of our Lady!”
“I believe I can make an exception for this one.” Artemis spoke as she stepped forward, as the girls pulled away they bowed their heads in respect to their new Lady. Artemis smiled at the immortal king, “Well met, Odysseus, it has been many years since we saw each other last.”
“How’ve you been, Missy?” Odysseus smiled back as he approached. To everyone’s shock and some horror, he hugged the goddess in a twelve year old’s body.
“HOW DARE YOU!?” Zoe shrieked as she drew her bow and arrows aiming at the man’s head. “To… to touch her so brazenly! And call her that!”
“Zoe, stand down.” Artemis ordered as they pulled apart. “He has no ill intentions and he is the only man besides my brother I allow to touch me in such a way. And the only one to call me Missy and live. Besides, what is a hug between old friends?”
“Friends?” Thalia asked, looking between the two. “You’re friends with a goddess?”
“Ody, you… know Lady Artemis?” Grover looked ready to combust with how red his face was.
“We met a long time ago.” Odysseus nodded glancing down at her, “Lyngsa I believe it was, near the Rondeslottet mountain range, yeah?”
“Indeed, we hunted a troll together.” Artemis nodded.
“A troll? Seriously?!” Nico asked his eyes wide with excitement.
“Indeed, young one, he was tracking it around the same time I was.” Artemis nodded. “We happened to be hunting in the same place.”
“It was pretty tough for sure, but with the both of us on it we managed to kill it.” Odysseus smiled remembering the hunt. “She was a hell of a fighter. The Norse Pantheon gave her permission to hunt in their territory, long as it was benefiting their people and proper tribute was given.”
“You were rather impressive yourself, Ody. The warriors of Valhalla taught you well. Though I believe Lady Freya contributed the most.” Artemis replied. “Do you still have your Norse magics?”
“Never leave home without them.” Odysseus smirked. “I’ll be sure to set up extra barriers. Not that I don't trust your hunters but considering who Thorn may be working for can't be too careful.”
“Hey!” Bianca finally found her voice after keeping quiet the last few minutes. “I demand to know what the hell is going on!? Why are you talking about gods as if they are real?!”
“Bianca, mind your language around Nico.” Odysseus lightly chastised moving away from Artemis toward her. “But I suppose we do owe you an explanation. First things first though you kids need to get somewhere warm.”
Grover’s sudden call of Percy’s name had Odysseus whirling around. The boy had doubled over a bit holding his shoulder that Odysseus just noticed was smoking a bit.
“Percy!” Odysseus hurried over to him. Inspecting the boy he saw his shoulder was smoking a bit. Shit. He hadn't noticed with the fighting and then the Hunters showing up. “When did you get hurt, Foal?”
“I.. tried to go after Thorn by myself.” Percy admitted. “I didn’t see you and I didn’t know where Thalia and Grover had danced off to at the time. A..annabeth used her cap and tried to find them. He was stronger than I thought.”
“Why did you think it was a good idea to go after a potential monster by yourself anyways you idiot!?” Thalia demanded finally piping up.
“Why did you not listen to Ody when he told you to move?” Percy shot back. “He's stronger than you and has magic, he could have easily dealt with Thorn. But nooo you had to be stubborn and we lost Annabeth!”
“Percy.” Odysseus said his name in warning.
“I don't even know him! Why should I listen to him, besides I've been dealing with monsters almost my whole life. I knew what I was doing!” Thalia shot back.
“He has thousands of years of experience.” Percy retorted. “You've been a tree for seven years!”
“That's not the point!” Thalia yelled back.
“So thou art still stubborn and bull headed as thy father.” Zoe stated, having put her bow away.
Thalia's eyes seemed to spark with electricity, her spear re extending in her hand. “You wanna say that again in modern terms?”
“I shall.” Zoe quickly pulled her bow back out as the tip of Thalia's began to surge with electricity.
“Enough.” Artemis cut in before a fight could really start. She looked up at Zoe, for someone that looked twelve she was able to make the hunter back off. “There will be no fighting in our camp. These ones will be joining us for the night and the journey to Camp Halfblood.”
A chorus of ‘yes my ladys’ sounded from the girls as they went about their business. A couple pulled out dog whistles, as they blew them several white wolves came from behind trees and falcons filled the branches.
“Half blood?” Bianca echoed the phrase. “What does that even mean?”
Odysseus started to walk forward to explain only for Artemis to approach the girl first. “Allow me to explain to her, you should focus on your injured camper. Bianca, was it? Come walk with me for a moment. We have much to discuss.”
Odysseus wanted to argue but he knew she was right. Plus it would probably go over better coming from Artemis. Bianca looked toward him for reassurance, this was a lot being thrown at her for sure. Odysseus gave the girl a comforting smile as he nodded reassuringly.
“What about my brother?” She asked, still looking unsure.
“Don't worry about Nico, Bambina. We'll keep an eye on him.” Odysseus replied.
Finally convinced, the girl followed the goddess on a moonlit walk. Odysseus led the rest of the kids to a tent one of the hunters said was theirs. Thalia opted to stay outside, he'd have his talk with her at camp.
He dressed Percy’s shoulder and gave him an ambrosia square to speed up the healing, while Nico asked Grover all kinds of questions about the gods and their… Attack points. Odysseus cast a small silence bubble so the two could have privacy to talk.
“Percy-”
“It's all my fault.” Percy cut in. “I should have waited or tried to find you. It’s all my fault she’s gone.”
Odysseus stared at the boy before gently gripping his other shoulder. “Listen to me and listen good, Perseus Orion, none of what happened was your fault. Hells it isn’t even Thalia’s, if its anyones it is mine. I shouldn’t have been distracted during the mission. I know you want to go find Annabeth, I do too.”
“Can.. can you tell if she’s?” Percy didn’t have to finish his question, Odysseus already knew what it was.
“She isn’t, as far as I can tell. She’s just disappeared, wherever Thorn took off with her it’s somewhere I can’t sense.” Odysseus shook his head and he hated that. He has never felt so useless than now. “But I swear I will find her, soon as we get these kids back to camp and touch base with Chiron. I’ll go look for her.”
“I want to come.” Percy stated. At Odysseus’s narrowed gaze he quickly added, “You know I’ll follow you anyways so why not take me willingly instead? Less trouble that way.”
Odysseus gave the teen a deadpanned look. “I could always use a binding spell and make you stay at camp.”
“I could always rearrange your antiques and dog ear your book pages.” Percy shot back with a mischievous look. He chuckled at the affronted look Odysseus gave him.
“How dare you! You little gremlin, you know that is a horrible thing to threaten.” Odysseus hissed. They held each other’s gaze for a few minutes before chuckling a bit. Odysseus reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately. “Lets get back to camp first then we’ll discuss it.”
As he dispelled the silence bubble he noticed Nico and Grover had been watching them.
“How’d you do that?!” Nico demanded.
“I’ll explain later, Bambino, I have to go set up the barriers around the camp. Percy, you and Grover explain to Nico what he needs to know.” Odysseus stated. With nods from both teen and satyr, he left the tent.
Odysseus walked the perimeter of the camp that the hunters had set up whispering nordic barrier spells and detections as well as look away spells. He knew the hunters had summoned wolf and falcon familiars to help keep watch but there were somethings that could slip by even their senses. Of all the Olympians, Odysseus found there were some he didn’t mind. Artemis was one of them. If anything he trusted her more than any of them, even Athena. She was honest, cold yet kind and knew that her hunters, though immortal, still had feelings and hearts.
He’d finished his training with Freya and decided to rejoin the mortal world. He was hunting a troll he’d learned that had been eating travelers and locals alike. Come to find out he and the Greek Goddess of the Moon and Hunt were hunting the same creature, at first Odysseus was as weary of her as she was of him. He was afraid at first that she’d tell her father and uncle that she’d seen him. She’d distrusted him at first of course as well. After the hunt they’d shared a campfire as well as some stories, she swore to keep his resurgence a secret from Olympus. When her brother brought the dawn they’d parted ways as allies. While she still wasn’t sure about him, she didn’t treat him so distrustfully as before. The pair had continued to run into each other in various territories during monster hunts. Each time she was surprisingly alone, none of her hunters had joined her. She’d explained that she only solo hunted the really strong monsters, plus the other Pantheon’s would only allow her into their lands.
As Odysseus finished the last barrier, he saw a flash of red orange fur streaked with gold light pass through the trees. Narrowing his eyes Odysseus trekked through the snow and toward the animal. It was another small clearing far from the school where he found Marcus in wolf form sitting and waiting for him.
“Why are you here?” Odysseus demanded.
“Look, Gor.. Odysseus, I’m sorry I distracted you.” Marcus said, his ears were down. He looked surprisingly docile and apologetic. “That honestly wasn’t my intention.”
“What the fuck was your intention then?” Odysseus hissed. “Because of you I got distracted and left my kids alone during a mission. Now Annabeth is gone, because of me. I lost my Owlette."
“No, Odysseus, it was my fault.” Marcus shook his head as he stood from his haunches and trotted toward the immortal. “And I’m going to make up for it somehow. I'll let you know what I find."
Before the man could reply Marcus gently pressed his forehead to his and bounded off through the trees leaving the man shocked man alone in the cold forest.
Requirements for the writing prompt you produce:
- It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”).
- It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required).
- Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer.
- If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt.
- Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”).
- Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready.
Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags.
Guidance:
- Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue).
- Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”).
- If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
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